path: root/65995-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65995 ***

        THE MINE WITH THE IRON DOOR BOOKS BY HAROLD BELL WRIGHT


                        THAT PRINTER OF UDELL’S
                       THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS
                      THE CALLING OF DAN MATTHEWS
                     THE WINNING OF BARBARA WORTH
                           THEIR YESTERDAYS
                         THE EYES OF THE WORLD
                          WHEN A MAN’S A MAN
                     THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT
                          THE UNCROWNED KING
                        HELEN OF THE OLD HOUSE
                      THE MINE WITH THE IRON DOOR

                         D. APPLETON & COMPANY
                            New York London

[Illustration: SHE CAUGHT HIM BY THE ARM.... “THE SHERIFF IS HERE!”]




                               THE MINE
                          WITH THE IRON DOOR

                               A ROMANCE

                                  BY
                          HAROLD BELL WRIGHT

               AUTHOR OF “HELEN OF THE OLD HOUSE,” “THE
                 SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS,” “THE WINNING
                        OF BARBARA WORTH,” ETC.


                           THE RYERSON PRESS
                                TORONTO
                                 1923


                          COPYRIGHT, 1923, BY
                        D. APPLETON AND COMPANY


                PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA


                                  TO
                              MY FRIENDS
                           IN THE OLD PUEBLO
                                TUCSON




CONTENTS


CHAPTER                                                             PAGE

     I. THE CAÑON OF GOLD                                              1

    II. AT THE ORACLE STORE                                            7

   III. THE PARDNERS’ GIRL                                            13

    IV. SAINT JIMMY                                                   25

     V. THE PROSPECTOR’S STORY                                        34

    VI. NIGHT                                                         45

   VII. THE STRANGER’S QUEST                                          50

  VIII. THE NEW NEIGHBOR                                              58

    IX. “GOLD IS WHERE YOU FIND IT”                                   80

     X. SUMMER                                                        90

    XI. THE LIZARD                                                   103

   XII. GHOSTS                                                       108

  XIII. THE AWAKENING                                                120

   XIV. THE STORM                                                    132

    XV. MARTA’S FLIGHT                                               149

   XVI. NATACHEE                                                     156

  XVII. THE SHERIFF’S VISIT                                          172

 XVIII. AN INDIAN’S ADVICE                                           185

   XIX. ON EQUAL TERMS                                               191

    XX. THE ONLY CHANCE                                              196

   XXI. THE WAY OF A RED MAN                                         208

  XXII. THE LOST MINE                                                217

 XXIII. SONORA JACK                                                  225

  XXIV. THE WAY OF A WHITE MAN                                       235

   XXV. THE WAYS OF GOD                                              247

  XXVI. TRAGEDY                                                      256

 XXVII. ON THE TRAIL                                                 263

XXVIII. THE OUTLAWS                                                  276

  XXIX. THE RESCUE                                                   291

   XXX. PARDNERS STILL                                               305

  XXXI. THE MEXICAN’S CONFESSION                                     312

 XXXII. REVELATION                                                   320

XXXIII. GOLD                                                         324

 XXXIV. MORNING                                                      330

  XXXV. FREEDOM                                                      337




THE MINE WITH THE IRON DOOR




CHAPTER I

THE CAÑON OF GOLD

     And yet--those who look for it still find “color” in the Cañada del
     Oro. Romance and adventure still live in the Cañon of Gold. The
     treasures of life are not all hidden in a lost mine behind an iron
     door.


From every street and corner in Tucson we see the mountains. From our
places of business, from our railway depots and hotels, from our
University campus and halls, and from the windows and porches of our
homes we look up to the mighty hills.

But of all the peaks and ranges that keep their sentinel posts around
this old pueblo there are none so bold in the outlines of their granite
heights and rugged cañons, so exquisitely beautiful in their soft colors
of red and blue and purple, or so luring in the call of their remote and
hidden fastnesses, as the Santa Catalinas.

Every morning they are there--looking down upon our little city in the
desert with a brooding, Godlike tolerance--remote yet very near. All
day long they watch with world-old patience our fretful activities, our
puny strivings and our foolish pretenses. And when evening is come and
the dusk of our desert basin deepens, their castle crags and turret
peaks signal, with the red fire of the sunset, “good-night” to us who
dwell in the gloom below. Even in the darkness we see their shadowy
might against the sky, and feel the still and solemn mystery of their
enduring strength under the desert stars.

This is a story of some people who lived in the Catalinas.

If you would find more exactly the scenes of this romance you must take
the new Bankhead Highway that, in its course from Tucson to Florence and
Phœnix, runs for miles in the shadow of these mountains. From the old
Mexican quarter of the city--picturesque still with the colorful life of
the West that is vanishing--you go straight north on Main Street, where
the dust of your passing is the dust of the crumbled adobe buildings and
fortifications of the ancient pueblo that had its beginning somewhere in
the forgotten centuries. Leaving the outskirts of the town your way
leads over rolling lands of greasewood and cacti, down the long grade
past the cemetery, past the Government hospital in the valley, to the
bridge that spans the Rillito. From the little river you climb quickly
up to the desert slopes that form the western base of the main range and
that lie under their wide skies unmarked by human hands since the
beginning of deserts and mountains. Beyond the famous Steam Pump Ranch,
some sixteen miles from Tucson, the road to Oracle branches off from the
Bankhead Highway and climbs higher and higher until from a wide mesa you
can see the place of my story--the mighty Cañada del Oro--the Cañon of
Gold.

But if you know the way you may turn aside from the main road before you
come to this new Oracle branch and take instead the old road that winds
closer to the mountains and for several miles follows the bed of the
lower cañon. It was along this ancient trail that the eventful and
romantic life of this southern Arizona country, through its many ages,
moved.

This way, centuries ago, came the Spaniards--lured by tales of a strange
people who used silver and gold as we use tin and iron, and who set
turquoise in the gates of their houses. This way came the Franciscan
Fathers to find in the Cañada del Oro gold for their mission at San
Xavier. This way, from the San Pedro and the Aravaipa, came savage
Apache to raid the peaceful farming Papagos and later to war against the
pale-face settlers in the valley of the Santa Cruz. Prehistoric races,
explorers, Indians, priests, pioneers, prospectors, cattlemen, soldiers
and adventurers of every sort from every land--all, all have come this
way--along this old road through the Cañon of Gold.

And because there was water here, and because there was gold here, this
wild and adventurous life, through the passing centuries, made this
place a camping ground and a battle field--a place of labor and crime,
of victory and defeat; of splendid heroism, noble sacrifice, and
dreadful fear. Set amid the grandeur and the beauty of these vast
deserts, lonely skies and wild and rugged mountains, the Cañada del Oro
has been, most of all, as indeed it is to-day, a place of dreams that
never came true; of hopes that were never fulfilled; of labor that was
vain.

Of all the stirring tales of this picturesque region of the Santa
Catalinas, of all the romantic legends and traditions that have come
down to us from its shadowy past, none is more filled with the essence
of human life and love and hopes and dreams than is the tale of the Mine
with the Iron Door.

But this is not a story of those old Spaniards and padres and Indians
and pioneers. It is a story of to-day.

The old, old tale of the Mine with the Iron Door is as true for us as it
ever was for those who lived and loved so many years ago. We too, in
these days, have our dreams that must remain always, merely dreams and
nothing more. We too, in these modern times, are called upon to bury in
the secret places of our modern hearts hopes that are dead. In every
life there are the ashes of fires that have burned out or, by some cold
fate, have been extinguished. For every living one of us, I believe,
there is a Cañada del Oro--a Cañon of Gold--there is a lost mine that
will never be found--there are iron doors that may never be opened.

And yet--those who look for it still find “color” in the Cañada del
Oro. Romance and adventure still live in the Cañon of Gold. The
treasures of life are not all hidden in a lost mine behind an iron door.

As the old prospector, Thad Grove, said to his pardner one time when
their last pinch of dust was gone and their most promising lead had
pinched out: “After all, it’s a dead immortal cinch that if we _had_
a-happened to strike it rich like we was hopin’, we couldn’t never bin
as rich as we was hopin’ to be. There jest naterally _ain’t_ that much
gold, nohow.”

“Sure,” returned Bob Hill, the other old-timer, “and ain’t you never
took notice how much richer a feller with one poor, little, old nugget
in his pan is than the hombre what only thinks he’s got a bonanza
somewheres on the insides of a mountain? An’ look at this, will you: If
everybody was to certain sure _find_ the mine he’s huntin’ there’d be so
blame _much_ gold in the world that it’d take a hundred-mule train to
pack enough to buy a mess of frijoles. It’s a good thing, _I_ say, that
somebody, er something has fixed it somehow so’s _all_ our fool dreams
_can’t_ come true.”

“Speakin’ of love,” said Thad on another occasion, when the two were
discussing the happiness that had so strangely come to them with their
partnership daughter, “love ain’t no big deposit that a feller is allus
hopin’ to find but mostly never does. Love is jest a medium high-grade
ore that you got to dig for.”

“Yep,” agreed Bob, “an’ when you’ve got your ore you’ve sure got to run
it through the mill an’ treat it scientific if you expect to recover
much of the values.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The affairs of the old Pardners and their daughter Marta were matters of
great and never-failing interest to the loungers who gathered in front
of the general store and post-office in Oracle.

Bill Janson, known as the Lizard, invariably opened and led the
discussions. The Janson family, it should be said, had drifted into the
Cañada del Oro from Arkansas. They were, in the picturesque vernacular
of the cattlemen, “nesters.” The Lizard, an only son, was one of those
rat-faced, shifty-eyed, loose-mouthed, male creatures who know
everything about everybody and spend the major part of their days
telling it.

It was on one of those social occasions when the Lizard was entertaining
a group of idlers on the platform in front of the store that I first
heard of the two old prospectors and their partnership girl.




CHAPTER II

AT THE ORACLE STORE

     “My Gawd! Hit’s enough t’ drive a decent man plumb loony, a-tryin’
     t’ figger hit out.”


“Yes, sir,” said the Lizard, “I’m a-tellin’ ye that them thar Pardners
an’ their gal--Marta her name is--are th’ beatenest outfit ye er ary
other man ever seed. Ain’t nobody kin figger ’em out, nohow. They’ve
been here nigh about five year, too. Me an’ paw an’ maw, we been here
eight year ourselves--comin’ this fall. Yes, sir, they’re sure a queer
actin’ lot.”

The Lizard had so evidently made his introductory remarks for my benefit
that some sort of acknowledgment was unquestionably due.

“What are they, miners?”

“Uh-huh, they’re a-workin’ a claim--makin’ enough t’ live on, I
reckon--leastways they’re a-livin’. But that ain’t hit--hit’s that thar
gal of theirn.” He shook his head and heaved a troubled sigh. “Law,
law!”

And no one could have failed to mark the eager viciousness of the
Lizard’s expression as the loose-mouthed creature ruminated on the
delectable gossip he was about to offer.

“Ye see hit’s like this: Them two old-timers had this here gal with ’em
when they first come into th’ cañon down yonder. She was a kid--’long
’bout fourteen, then. An’ there ain’t nobody kin tell fer sure who she
is, ner whar she come from. They say as how old Bob an’ Thad found her
when they was a-prospectin’ onct down on th’ border somewhares--tuck her
away from some Mexican outfit er other. Mebby hit’s so an’ mebby hit
ain’t. But everybody ’lows as how she ain’t come from no good sort
nohow, ’cause if she had why wouldn’t the Pardners tell hit? An’ take
an’ look at this dad-beatin’ father arrangement--take their names fer
instance: one is Bob Hill, t’other is Thad Grove, an’ what’s the gal’s
name but Marta Hillgrove--Hill-Grove--d’ye ketch hit? An’ one week old
Bob he’ll be her pappy, an’ th’ next week old Thad he’s her paw, an’ the
gal she jist naterally ’lows they both her daddies. My Gawd! Hit’s
enough t’ drive a decent man plumb loony a-tryin’ t’ figger hit out.”

The Lizard’s friends laughed.

“Oh, ye kin laugh, but I’m a-tellin’ ye thar’s somethin’ wrong somewhars
an’ I ain’t th’ only one what says so neither. Won’t nobody over here in
Oracle have nothin’ t’ do with her. Will they?” He turned to the
loungers for confirmation.

“She’s a plumb beauty, too, an’ a mighty cute little piece--reg’lar
spitfire, if ye git her started--an’ smart--say, she bosses them pore
old Pardners till they’re scared mighty nigh t’ death of her--an’
proud--huh--she’s too all-fired proud to suit some of us.”

The crowd grinned.

“The Lizard, he sure ought to know,” said one.

“How about it, Lizard?” came from another. “You been a-tryin’ t’ make up
t’ her ever since she moved into your neighborhood, ain’t you?”

“Ye all don’t need to mind about me,” retorted the Lizard, with a
vicious leer. “My day’ll happen along yet. Ye notice I ain’t drawed what
Chuck Billings got.”

“Chuck Billings,” he continued for the benefit of any one who might not
be well versed in Cañada del Oro history, “he was one of George
Wheeler’s punchers, an’ he tuck up with her one evenin’ when she was
a-comin’ home from Saint Jimmy’s, an’ I’ll be dad-burned if her old
prospectin’ daddies didn’t work on Chuck ’til George jist naterally had
t’ send him int’ th’ hospital at Tucson. Chuck he ain’t never showed up
in this neighborhood since neither. I heard as how George told him if he
did get well an’ dast t’ come back he’d take a try at him hisself.”

“Good for George!”

“Heh? What’s that?”

“Does George Wheeler live in the Cañada del Oro, too?”

“Naw, Wheeler he’s got a big cow ranch jist back here from Oracle a
piece. George he rides all th’ cañon country though--him an’ his
punchers. An’ us folks down in th’ cañon we go through his hoss pasture
when we come up here t’ Oracle fer anythin’. George an’ his wife they’re
’bout th’ only folks what’ll have any truck with that pardnership gal.
But shucks, George an’ his wife they’d be good t’ anybody. Take Saint
Jimmy an’ his maw now, they have her ’round of course.”

“Saint Jimmy is your minister, I suppose?”

“He’s what?”

“A minister--clergyman, you know--a preacher.”

“Oh, ye mean a parson--Shucks! Naw, Saint Jimmy he’s jist one of these
here fellers what’s everybody’s friend. He lives with his maw up on th’
mountain ’bove Juniper Spring, ’bout three mile from Wheeler’s ranch,
jist off th’ cañon trail after ye come up into th’ hills. A little white
house hit is. You kin see hit easy from most anywheres. His real name’s
Burton. He’s a doctor, er was ’fore he got t’ be a lunger. He was
a-livin’ back East when he tuk sick. Then him an’ his maw they come t’
this country. He’s well enough here, ’pears like; but they do say he
dassn’t never leave Arizona an’ go back t’ his doctorin’ agin like he
was. He’s a funny cuss--plays th’ flute t’ beat anythin’. You kin hear
him ’most any time of a pretty evenin’. He’ll roost up on some rock on
th’ side of th’ mountain somewhares an’ toot away ’til plumb midnight;
but he won’t never play when ye ask him, ner fer any of th’ dances we
have over here in Oracle neither. I heard George Wheeler say onct as how
Saint Jimmy war right smart of a doctor back t’ his home whar he come
from. You see, Saint Jimmy he’s been a-teachin’ this here gal of th’
Pardners book larnin’.”

The Lizard opened his wide mouth in a laugh which showed every yellow
tooth in his head. “I’ll say he’s a-teachin’ her. I’ve seed ’em together
up on th’ mountains an’ in th’ cañon more’n onct--book larnin’--huh! Ye
don’t need t’ take my word fer hit neither--ye kin ask anybody ’bout
what decent folks thinks of Marta Hillgrove. She----“

How much more the Lizard would have said on his favorite topic will
never be known for at that moment a man appeared in the open doorway of
the store.

Not one of the group of loungers spoke, but every eye was turned on the
man who stood looking them over with such cool contempt.

He was dressed in the ordinary garb of civilization, but his dark,
impassive countenance, with the raven-black hair and eyes, was not to be
mistaken. The man was an Indian.

Presently, without a word, the red man stepped past the loungers and
walked away up the road.

Silently they watched until the Indian was out of sight.

The Lizard drew a long breath.

“That thar’s Natachee. He’s Injun. Lives all alone somewheres in th’
mountains, away up at th’ head of th’ Cañada del Oro. He’s one of them
thar school Injuns. Talks like a reglar book when he wants t’, but
mostly he won’t say nothin’ t’ nobody. Wears white clothes all right,
like ye see, when he has t’ come t’ town fer anythin’; but out in th’
mountains he goes ’round jist like all th’ Injuns used to. Which goes t’
show, I claim, that an Injun’s an Injun no matter how much ye try t’
larn him.”

“That’s right,” agreed one of the listeners.

“He’s a real sociable cuss, ain’t he?” commented another with a grin.

“Him an’ Saint Jimmy’s friendly enough,” said the Lizard, “an’ I know
th’ old Pardners claim he ain’t no harm. But I ain’t havin’ no truck
with him myself. This here’s a white man’s country, I say.”

A chorus of “You bet!” “That’s what!” and “You’re a-shoutin’!” approved
the Lizard’s sentiments.

Then another voice said:

“Do you reckon this here Natachee really knows anything about that old
lost mine in the cañon, like some folks seem to think?”

The Lizard wagged his head in solemn and portentous silence, signifying
that, however ready he might be to talk about the Pardners’ girl, the
Mine with the Iron Door was not a subject to be lightly discussed in the
presence of a stranger.




CHAPTER III

THE PARDNERS’ GIRL

     “Marta is bound to know, when she stops to think about it, that she
     jest can’t have two fathers.”


The house in the Cañon of Gold where the Pardners and their girl lived
was little more than a cabin of rough, unpainted boards. But there was a
wide porch overrun with vines, and a vegetable garden with flowers.
Beyond the garden there was a rude barn or shelter, built as the Indians
build, of sahuaro poles and mud, with a small corra made of thorny
ocotillo, and the place as a whole was roughly inclosed by an old fence
of mesquite posts and barbed wire. On every side the mountains
rose--ridge and dome and peak--into the sky, and night and day, through
summer droughts and winter rains, the cañon creek murmured or sang or
roared on its way from the woodsy heart of the Catalinas to lose itself
in the sandy wastes of the desert below. The little mine where the
Pardners worked was across the creek a hundred yards or more from the
kitchen door.

It was that time of the year when, if the rain gods of the Indians have
been kind, the deserts and mountains of Arizona riot in a blaze of
color. On the mountain sides, silvery white Apache plumes and graceful
wands of brilliant scarlet mallow were nodding amid the lilac of the
loco-weed, while, in every glade and damp depression, the gold of the
buck-bean shone in settings of brightest green. And on the cañon floor,
the pink white bloom of cañon anemone, with yellow primroses and
whispering bells, made points and patches of light in the shadow of the
rocky walls.

It is not enough to say that the Pardners’ girl fully justified the
Lizard’s somewhat qualified admiration. There was something
more--something that neither the Lizard nor his kind could appreciate.
She was rather boyish, perhaps, as girls reared in the healthful
out-of-door atmosphere are apt to be, but it was a dainty boyishness--if
sturdy--that in no way marred the exquisite feminine qualities of her
beauty. Her hair and eyes were dark, and her cheeks richly colored with
good health and sunshine; and she looked at one with a disconcerting
combination of innocence and frankness which, together with the charm of
her sex, was certain to fix the attention of any mere male, whatever his
station in life or previous condition of servitude. In short, the
strangeness of Marta Hillgrove’s relationship to the grizzled old
Pardners, with the mystery of her real parentage, was not at all needed
to make her the talk of the country side. She was the kind of a girl
that both men and women instinctively discuss, though for quite
different reasons.

Bob Hill put his empty coffee cup down that Saturday morning with a long
breath of satisfaction, and felt for the pipe and the sack of tobacco
in his shirt pocket.

“Thar’s nothin’ to it, daughter,” he remarked--his faded blue eyes
twinkling and his leathery, wrinkled, old face beaming with pride and
love--“if Mother Burton learns you any more cookin’, Thad an’ me will
founder ourselves sure. I’m here to maintain that one whiff of a
breakfast like that would make one of them Egypt mummies claw himself
right out of his pyramid.”

Thad Grove grunted a scornful, pessimistic, protesting grunt and rubbed
the top of his totally bald head with aggressive vigor.

“She ain’t your daughter, Bob Hill--not this week. It’s my turn to be
daddy an’ you know it. You’re allus a-tryin’ to gouge me out of my
rights.”

Marta’s laughter was as unaffected as the song of the cardinal that at
that moment was waking the cañon echoes. Patting Thad’s arm
affectionately, she said:

“Make him play fair, daddy, make him play fair. I’ll back you up every
time he tries to cheat.”

“By smoke!” ejaculated Bob. “I clean disremembered what day it was
to-day. But to-morrer is another week an’ she’ll be mine all right
then.” He glared at Thad triumphantly. “I tell you, Pardner, jest
a-thinkin’ of me goin’ to be daddy to a gal like her makes me all set
up. I’ve sure got a feelin’ that to-morrer is the day we’ll dig clean
through to our bonanza.”

“Huh,” retorted Thad. “I got a feelin’ we ain’t goin’ to dig into no
bonanza to-morrer, nor nothin’ else.”

“Why not?” demanded Bob.

“’Cause to-morrer is Sunday, ain’t it? Holy Cats! but you’re a-gettin’
loonier and loonier. If you keep on a-dyin’ at the top you won’t be fit
to be daddy to nobody. I’ll jest up an’ git myself app’inted guardian
for my off weeks--that’s what I’ll do.”

“I may be a-dyin’ at the top,” returned Bob, “but, by smoke, I ain’t
coverin’ no alkali flat under my hat like you be. As for us workin’
Sundays--I know we ain’t allowed, in general, but it’s a plumb sin if we
can’t--jest for to-morrer--with me all set like I am.”

He looked at Marta appealingly.

“Whatever my gal says goes,” said Thad.

Bob continued persuasively:

“You see, honey, I’ve got it all figgered out that when we git in about
three feet further than we’ll make to-day we’re bound to uncover our
everlastin’ fortunes. You want us all to be rich, don’t you?”

“It’s no use,” said the girl firmly. “You both know well enough that I
will not permit you to break the Sabbath. Saint Jimmy’s mother says it
is no way for Christians to do, and that settles it. Anything that
Mother Burton says is wrong _is_ wrong. You both consider yourselves
Christians, don’t you?”

“You’re dead right, daughter,” said Thad, with an air of gentle
complacency. “I hadn’t a mite of a notion to work on Sunday myself. I
wouldn’t go so far as to say I was much of a Christian but”--he glared
at his pardner--“it’s a cinch I’m no Zulu. As for anybody that intimates
we got a chance to uncover a fortune anywhere in that hole out there,
between the dump and China--wal, I’d hate to tell you what sort of a
Christian I think _he_ is.”

Bob grinned cheerfully.

“Mebby I ain’t so much of a Christian neither,” he agreed, “but if I’d
a-been that old Pharaoh what built them pyramids----“

The girl interrupted:

“Now, there you go again. That’s the second time. What in the world
started you to talking about Egypt and pyramids and Pharaoh and mummies
and things like that?”

“Oh, I jest happened to take a peek into one of them books that Saint
Jimmy got us to buy for you, that’s all,” returned the old-timer, with a
sly wink at the smiling girl. “An’ anyway, it seems like I ought to know
somethin’ about mummies by this time, after livin’ as long as I have
with that there.” He pointed a long, gnarled finger at his pardner.
“Egypt or Arizona, livin’ or dead, it’s all the same, I reckon. A
mummy’s a mummy wherever you find it.”

Thad rubbed his bald head with deliberate care.

“Daughter, does Mother Burton’s brand of Christianity say anything about
what a man should do to his enemies?”

“Indeed it does,” returned the girl. “It says we must love our enemies
and forgive them.”

“All right--all right--an’ what does it say about lovin’ an’ forgivin’
your friends, heh?”

“Why--nothing, I guess.”

“Course it don’t,” cried the old prospector in shrill triumph.

“Course it don’t. An’ do you know why? I’ll tell you why. It’s because
it’s so doggone easy to forgive an enemy compared to what it is to
forgive a friend, that’s why. The Good Book knows ’tain’t necessary to
say nothin’ about friends, ’cause it’s jest as nateral and virtuous to
hate a friend as ’tis to love an enemy--that’s what I’m a-meanin’.”

Marta was not in the least disturbed over this exchange of courtesies by
her two fathers. Rising from the table, she laughingly remarked that if
they were not _too_ busy they might saddle her horse, as she must go to
Oracle for supplies. Whereupon the Pardners went to the barn, leaving
their girl free to clear away the breakfast things, wash the dishes, and
finish her morning housework.

It was an unwritten law of the partnership that the particular father of
the week should stand obligated to the parental responsibilities of the
position. It was by no means the least of his duties that he must endure
the criticisms of the other upon the way he was “bringing up” his
daughter. It seems scarcely necessary to add that criticism was never
wanting and that it was never without directness and point. To
compensate for this burden of responsibility, the parent was permitted
to say “my gal” while the critic, by the rules of the game, must
invariably say “that gal of yourn.”

While Thad the father was currying his daughter’s horse, Nugget--a
bright little pinto--Bob squatted comfortably on his heels, his back
against the wall of the barn.

“Pardner,” he said, as one who speaks after mature deliberation, “I
ain’t meanin’ to mix none in your family affairs, but as a friend I’m
a-feelin’ constrained to remark that you ain’t doin’ right by that gal
of yourn nohow.”

Marta’s father was making a careful examination of the pinto’s off
forefoot and seemed not to hear.

Bob continued:

“Anybody can see that she comes mighty nigh bein’ grown up. First thing
_you_ know somebody’ll make her understand all to once that she’s a
woman, and then----“

Thad dropped the pinto’s foot and glared at his pardner over the horse’s
back.

“Then _what_?”

“Then she’ll be wantin’ to know things. An’--it might be too late to
tell her.”

“You mean that I ought to tell my gal what we know about her?” demanded
Marta’s father. “Is that what you’re tryin’ to say?”

“You guessed it, Pardner,” returned the critical one cheerfully. “It’s
time that your gal knowed about herself. Bein’ her daddy, it’s up to you
to tell her.”

The other exploded:

“Which is exactly what I tried all last week to tell _you_, when you was
her daddy, you blamed old numskull, an’ you wouldn’t near listen to me.
A healthy father you are. When it’s _your_ daughter that ought to be
told, you can’t even whisper, but when she’s mine you can yell your fool
head off tellin’ me what _I_ ought to do. Besides, you said yourself
that we don’t actually know enough to tell her anything.”

“But that was last week, you see,” returned Bob calmly. “You was doin’
the talkin’ then--now _I’m_ tellin’ you.”

When Thad, without replying, fell to rubbing Nugget’s glossy hide with
such energy that the little horse squirmed like a schoolboy undergoing
maternal inspection, Bob continued:

“Marta is bound to know, when she stops to think about it, that she jest
can’t have two fathers. It’s plumb unnateral, even for two such daddies
as she’s got. So far she ain’t give it much thought. She’s sort of
growed up with the idea an’ accepted things as young folks do--up to a
certain time, that is. My point is, that from now on her time is liable
to come any day. Right now, if she thinks of it at all she jest smiles
an’ plays the game with us, but that’s ’cause she’s mostly kid yet. You
wait ’til the woman in her is woke up--right there she’ll quit playin’
an’ somethin’ is due to happen. You ain’t doin’ right by your daughter,
Thad, not to tell her--you sure ain’t.”

Thad Grove faced his old pardner miserably. “I know you’re right, Bob.
Marta ought to be told what we know about her. I can see that it’ll look
mighty bad to her some day if she ain’t. But, hang darn it, it’s jest
like you said last week--we don’t know enough for me to tell her
anything. If I was to tell her what little we do know, it would look a
heap sight worse to her than it possibly can with her not bein’ told
anything, like she is now. The way I figger, if the gal don’t know
nothin’, she’s got a chance to ride over it; but if she knows the little
that we know she’ll be plumb ruined.”

“I don’t reckon it’s near so bad as that, Pardner,” said the other
soothingly. “I’m here to tell you that there ain’t nothin’ could ruin
that gal of yourn.”

At this, the fire of old Thad’s soul flared up anew.

“Is that so?” he returned in a voice of withering scorn. “_Is_ that so?
Well, I’m a tellin’ _you_ that you can ruin _anybody_.”

“Saint Jimmy, for instance?” retorted Bob with sarcasm.

“Yes, Saint Jimmy. You can’t tell what sort of a scoundrel Saint Jimmy
would a-been if he hadn’t happened to a-turned sick. There’s many a man
in the pen, right now, jest on account of havin’ too much good health.”

“I reckon you’re speakin’ gospel for once,” agreed Bob reluctantly.
Then, as if he had not forgotten his critical privileges, he added: “But
there’s something else you ought to tell your gal--something that the
best authorities all agree ought to be told every gal by somebody--an’
bein’ as you’re her father, an’ she ain’t never had no real ma, why--it
would look like it was up to you.”

“What’s that?” demanded Thad suspiciously.

“That’s what they call love,” returned the other gently. “Growin’ up
like Marta has, with jest us two old, dried-up, desert rats, she don’t
know no more about love an’ its consequences than--than--nothin’.”

Marta’s father dropped his brush and kicked it viciously across the
stable. Nugget danced with excitement.

“Love! Holy Cats! What fool notion’ll take you next? You don’t need to
worry none. Some feller will happen along some day an’ tell her more
about love in a minute than you’ve ever knowed in all your life.”

“That’s jest it,” returned the other. “Some feller is bound to tell her,
jest like you say. He’ll slip up on her quiet like, when she ain’t
suspicionin’ nothin’, an’ break it to her sudden ’fore she knows where
she’s at. That’s how them consequences happen. An’ that’s why she ought
to know beforehand, so’s she can be watchin’ out.”

Thad was rubbing his bald head seeking, apparently, for an answer
sufficiently crushing, when a clear call came from the house.

“Daddy--Oh, Daddy, I am ready.”

With frantic haste, the Pardners, working together as if they had never
had a difference, saddled and bridled the pinto. Together they led the
little horse to the house.

When the girl was in the saddle, she looked down into their upturned
faces with such an expression of girlish affection and womanly
thoughtfulness that the two old men grinned with sheepish delight and
pride.

“You will find your dinner all ready for you,” she said, while Nugget
tossed his head, impatient to be off. “It is on the table, covered with
a cloth. I’ll be home in time for supper. _Adios._” She lifted the
bridle rein and the pinto loped away.

The Pardners stood watching while she opened and closed the gate, cowboy
fashion, without dismounting. With a wave of her hand she rode on up the
cañon while the two old men followed her with their eyes until she
passed from sight around a turn in the cañon wall.

Thad spoke slowly:

“You’re plumb right, Bob. The gal has mighty nigh growed into a woman,
ain’t she? It don’t seem more’n a month or two neither, does it?”

“It sure don’t,” returned the other softly. “An’ ain’t she a wonder,
Thad--ain’t she jest a nateral-born wonder?”

“She’s all of that,” agreed Thad, “an’ then some. It plumb scares me
though, when I think of her findin’ out about herself an’ her all
educated up by Saint Jimmy an’ his mother like she is. Holy Cats, Bob!
What’ll we do?”

“She’s bound to know some day,” said Bob.

“She’s bound to, sure,” echoed Thad with a groan. “But my God a’mighty
ain’t either of us got nerve to tell her _now_. If she hadn’t been goin’
to school to Saint Jimmy these last five years--I mean if she was like
she would a-been with jest me an’ you to bring her up, it might not
a-mattered. But now--now it’s goin’ to be plain hell for her when she
finds out.”

Bob murmured softly:

“Won’t even let us work on Sundays ’cause it ain’t the right way for
Christians like us to do. We’d ought to a-told long ago, that’s what we
ought to a-done.”

“Sure, we ought to told her,” cried Thad, “jest like we’d ought to done
a lot of things we ain’t. But mournin’ over what ought to been done
ain’t payin’ us nothin’. What’re we _goin’_ to do, that’s what we got to
figger out. The gal’s got to be told.”

“Yes,” returned Bob. “An’ she’s got to be told ’fore some sneakin’
varmint beats us to it an’ tells her for true what me an’ you are only
suspicionin’. How’ll you ever do it?”

“How’ll _I_ ever do it?” shrilled Thad. “Holy Cats! I can’t--How’ll you
ever do it yourself?”

Bob answered helplessly:

“I can’t neither--an’ by smoke, I won’t.”

“She’s got to be told,” insisted Thad.

“She sure has,” said Bob.




CHAPTER IV

SAINT JIMMY

     Wise Mother Burton came to wonder, sometimes, if Saint Jimmy’s
     teaching was not more a matter of love than even he perhaps
     realized.


Doctor Jimmy Burton and his mother spent their first year in Arizona at
Tucson and Oracle. But when they were satisfied that Jimmy could live if
he gave up his too strenuous professional work and remained in the
Southwest, and that if he did not follow that course he would as surely
die, they built the little white house on the mountain side at Juniper
Springs, above the Cañada del Oro. As Jimmy explained, “it was quite
necessary, under the circumstances, that they live where they could see
out.”

It was during that first summer in Oracle that the neighbors began to
speak of his tender care of his mother, for, even in those days when he
was too ill to do more than think, his thoughts were all for her. And so
lovingly did he try to shield her from the pain of his suffering, so
cheerfully did he accustom her to the thought of the utter hopelessness
of his professional future, and so courageously, for her sake, did he
accept the pitifully small portion that life offered him, that the
people marveled at the spirit of the man. It was a question, they
sometimes said, with a touch of sincere reverence in their voices, if
Doctor Burton needed his mother as much as the doctor’s mother needed
him. But Jimmy and his mother knew that the truth of the matter was they
needed each other.

And so in their mutual need both mother and son found compensation for
their dreams that now could never come true. In place of the
professional honors that were predicted with such confidence for her
boy, and toward which she had looked with such pride, the mother saw her
son honored by the love of the unpretentious country folk. From plans
that had failed and hopes that were buried, Jimmy himself turned to the
grandeur of the mountains and the beauty of tree and bush and flower--to
the limitless spaces of the desert and the peace of the quiet stars. The
life of the great eastern city, with its hunger for fame, its struggle
for riches, its endless tumult and its restless longings, faded farther
and farther away. The simple, more primitive, more peaceful life of
God’s great unimproved world became every day more satisfying.

To the roaming cowboys and miners and their kind, and to the people of
the little mountain village, that tiny white house on the hill was
known. And many a man, when things were going wrong, came to spend an
hour with this friend whose understanding was so clear and whose counsel
was so true. Many a girl or woman in need of comfort, strength or
courage came to sit a while with Mrs. Burton. And sometimes a tired
rider of the range would hear in the twilight dusk the clear, sweet song
of Jimmy’s flute and, hearing, would smile and lift his wide-brimmed
hat; or perhaps a lonely prospector, camped for the night in some gulch
or wash would hear, and, hearing, would think again of things that in
his search for gold he had forgotten. And this is how Doctor James
Burton became Saint Jimmy and Saint Jimmy’s mother became Mother Burton
to them all.

It was natural that the good doctor should become Marta Hillgrove’s
teacher, and that Mrs. Burton should mother the girl who, until her
fathers brought her to the Cañada del Oro, had never known a woman’s
guiding love. Indeed, it was Saint Jimmy and his mother and all that
their friendship meant to Marta that had kept the Pardners in that
neighborhood. Never before since the beginning of their partnership had
those wanderers stayed so long in one place. For four--nearly
five--years Marta had been studying under Saint Jimmy; a fair equivalent
of the usual college course. With this textbook education she had
received from Mother Burton the kind of training that such a woman would
have given a daughter of her own. And yet these most excellent teachers
knew no more of their pupil’s history than did those thoughtless ones
who so freely discussed the girl and looked at her askance for what they
thought her parentage might be.

It should be said, too, that this schooling which Marta had received
from Saint Jimmy and his mother was wholly a matter of love. As Doctor
Burton explained to the Pardners, when they insisted that he should be
paid “same as a reg’lar teacher,” the work was really a blessing to him
in that his pupil contributed more to his life than he could possibly
give to hers; while Mother Burton warned the anxious fathers, gently but
firmly, that if they ever said another word about pay they would ruin
everything.

But as the years passed and she watched the amazing development of the
girl’s mind, and saw the unfolding of her richly endowed womanhood, wise
Mother Burton came to wonder sometimes if Saint Jimmy’s teaching was not
more a matter of love than even he perhaps realized.

On that spring morning when Marta rode to Oracle and her fathers
discussed the problem that so troubled them, Saint Jimmy sat in the yard
before the cottage door. On every side he saw the Mariposa tulips
lifting their lovely orange cups, and sweet pea blossoms swinging like
pink and white fairies above a lilac carpet of wild verbena and purple
fragrant hyptis, while against the rocks that were stained with splashes
of gray and orange and red and yellow lichens stood the purple
pentstemon. The mountain sides below were wondrous with the scarlet
glory of the ocotillo and the indescribable beauty of the chollas and
opuntias with their crowns and diadems of red and salmon and orange and
pink. The slopes and benches of the lower levels were bright with great
fields of golden brittle-bush; and beyond these, on the wide spaces of
the mesa, he could see the yuccas (our Lord’s candles) in countless
thousands, raising their stately shafts with eight-foot clusters of
creamy-white bloom.

Mrs. Burton, leaving her housework for a moment, came to stand in the
doorway. When they had spoken of the beautiful sight that never failed
to move them--calling each other’s attention to different favorite
views--Saint Jimmy said:

“Mother, doesn’t it all make you sort of hungry for something--something
that can’t be told in words?” he laughed in boyish embarrassment.

His mother smiled.

“Marta will be coming from Oracle with the mail, I suppose--this is
Saturday, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” said Jimmy softly, and wondered if his mother guessed
what it really was that he hungered for and could not talk about even to
her.

Mrs. Burton was turning back into the house when they heard some one
coming up the trail from the cañon. A moment later the Pardners
appeared. Saint Jimmy and his mother knew at once that the old
prospectors had come on business of greater moment than to make a mere
neighborly call.

When they had exchanged the customary greetings and Marta’s fathers had
assured their friends that the girl was well, Thad and Bob sat looking
at each other in troubled silence.

“Wal,” said Bob, at last, “why don’t you go ahead? She’s your gal this
week. Bein’ her daddy makes it your play, don’t it?”

Thad, rubbing his bald head desperately, made several ineffectual
attempts to speak. At last, with a recklessness born of this inner
struggle, he addressed Mrs. Burton:

“‘You see, ma’am, me an’ my pardner here has been takin’ notice lately
how my gal Marta is due, first thing we know, to be a growed-up woman.”

“She is, indeed!” replied Jimmy’s mother with an encouraging smile.

“Yes, ma’am, that’s what me an’ Bob here took notice. An’ we’ve been
figgerin’ up that mebby it was time she knowed what we know about her.
You an’ your son knows the same as everybody does, I reckon, that we
ain’t Marta’s real honest-to-God daddies.”

“Yes,” said Mrs. Burton, “but we have never, in any way, mentioned the
matter to Marta.”

“No, ma’am,” said Thad, “an’ we ain’t neither.”

“An’ that’s jest what’s the matter now,” put in Bob. “The gal ain’t
never been told nothin’.”

Mrs. Burton looked at her son.

“I am sure that you men are right,” said Saint Jimmy. “I have been
wanting to talk with you about it. You ought to tell Marta everything
you know of her and her people--how she came to you--everything.”

The Pardners consulted each other silently. Then Thad turned to Marta’s
teacher; the old prospector’s faded blue eyes were fixed on the younger
man’s face with a steady, searching gaze that permitted no evasion, even
if Saint Jimmy had been disposed to parry the question.

“Is there, to your thinkin’, any perticler reason why my gal ought to be
told at this perticler time?”

Saint Jimmy smiled reassuringly.

“No particular reason, so far as I know,” he said. “Of course you
realize that there has always been more or less talk. Sooner or later
the girl is bound to hear it. She should be fortified with the truth.”

Again Bob and Thad looked at each other helplessly.

“An’ if the truth ain’t jest what you might call fortifyin’--what then?”
said Thad at last.

“Yes,” echoed Bob. “What then? What if my pardner an’ me can’t say that
all the gossips is talkin’ ain’t so?”

Saint Jimmy did not answer. Mother Burton looked away. Old Thad rubbed
his bald head in mournful meditation.

“Doctor Burton,” said Bob slowly, as one feeling his way amid
conversational dangers, “Thad an’ me ain’t to say blind, if we be
gittin’ old. We can still tell ‘color’ when we run across it.” He
consulted his pardner with a look and Thad nodded his head in approval.
Bob continued: “We’re almighty proud of what you been doin’ for our
gal,” he caught himself quickly. “Excuse me, Pardner--for your gal, I
mean.”

Thad raised his hand--a gesture which signified that, in the stress of
the situation, he waived the fine point of their usual courtesy, and for
this crucial occasion acknowledged their joint fatherhood.

Old Bob swallowed, with difficulty, something that seemed to obstruct
his usual freedom of speech.

“An’ I reckon you understand, sir, that we ain’t noways lackin’ in
appreciation an’ gratitude to you an’ your ma for helpin’ Marta to grow
up into the young woman she is. My pardner an’ me, we sure done what we
could, an’ we’d been glad to a-done more if it had a-been possible, but
it wasn’t, not for us, an’ we’re sensible to what it all means to our
gal. If she wasn’t trained up an’ all educated like you an’ your ma has
made her, it wouldn’t much matter what her own folks was or how she
first come to us.”

“I understand,” said Saint Jimmy gently, “and I know that the girl could
not love you men more if you were, in fact, her own fathers. I know,
too, that nothing could make her love you less. But I am convinced that
she should know all that you know about her.”

“We would a-told her the story long ago,” said Thad, “if only we’d
a-knowed a little more than we do, or mebby, if we hadn’t knowed as
much, or if what little we do know didn’t look so almighty bad.”

“It will look a heap worse to her now than it ever did to us,” said Bob.

“It sure will,” agreed Thad, “an’ so, you see, we’ve been waitin’ an’
puttin’ it off, hopin’ that we would mebby, somehow, find out something
that, as it is, is lackin’.” He appealed to Mrs. Burton: “You can see
how it is, can’t you, ma’am?”

“I understand,” said the good woman, gently, “but I agree with my son.
Whatever it is, the story will make no difference in Marta’s love for
you, just as it has made no difference in your love for her.”

“Yes,” said Thad, “but how about the difference it might make to--“ he
paused and looked at his pardner helplessly. “Ahem--to--I mean----“

Bob spoke quickly:

“To you an’ Saint Jimmy, ma’am. What difference will it make to you
folks?”

Thad drew a deep breath of relief and rubbed his bald head with
satisfaction.

Mother Burton met them bravely with:

“Nothing that you have to tell can change our feeling for Marta. I could
not love her more if she were my own daughter.”

The two old men looked at Saint Jimmy eagerly.

“You dead sure that nothin’ would make you change toward our gal?”
demanded Bob.

“You plumb certain, be you, sir?” said old Thad.

Saint Jimmy smiled reassuringly.

“As certain as I am of death,” he answered.

With an air of excited relief Thad faced his pardner.

“That bein’ the case I move, Pardner, that we tell Doctor Burton here
what we know, an’ he can tell our gal or not as he sees fit, and when he
sees fit.”

“Jest what I was about to offer myself,” returned Bob. “You go ahead.”




CHAPTER V

THE PROSPECTOR’S STORY

     “No, sir, take it anyway you like, it jest naterally looks bad; an’
     that’s all me an’ my pardner knows about it.”


“It was about sixteen year ago,” Thad began at last.

“Seventeen, the middle of next month,” said Bob.

Thad continued:

“Me an’ my pardner here was comin’ in to Tucson from the Santa Rosa
Mountains, which is down close to the Mexican line. We’d been out for
about three months an’ was needin’ supplies. ’Long late in the afternoon
of the second day from where we’d been workin’, we stopped at a little
ranch house about three mile this side of the line for water. We knowed
the old Mexican man an’ woman what lived there all right--’most
everybody did--everybody like us old desert rats, that is--an’ didn’t
nobody know any good of ’em either.”

“Some claim that the old woman was Sonora Jack’s mother,” said Bob.
“Sonora Jack, you know, is half Mex, and a mighty bad citizen, too. He’s
somewheres across the line right now, hidin’ out for a killin’ he an’
his crowd made in a holdup’ bout the same time that we’re tellin’ you
of.”

Thad took up the story.

“Well, sir, we’d filled our water bags an’ was standin’ talkin’ with the
old woman who’d come to watch us--the man, he was away it appeared--when
all at once a little boy come trottin’ ’round the corner of the cabin
from behind somewheres.”

“About three or four, he was,” said Bob.

“About that,” agreed Thad. “An’ when he seen us he jest stopped short,
kind of scared like, an’ stood there cryin’.

“Well, sir, me an’ Bob tumbled in a holy minute that he didn’t belong
there. We knowed them old Mexicans didn’t have no kid that wasn’t growed
up long ago. An’ this little chap didn’t look like a Mexican youngster
nohow. The old woman acted kind of rattled at us lookin’ at the kid so
sharp, an’ started in tellin’ us that the muchachito was one of her
grandsons. That sounded fair enough at first, but when she turned an’
yelled at the kid in Mex, givin’ him the devil for not stayin’ behind
the house like she’d told him to, we seed that somethin’ was wrong. He
didn’t savvy Mex no more than we do Chinee.

“While the poor little cuss was standin’ there scared stiff an’
cryin’--not knowin’ what the old woman wanted, Bob here went down on one
knee an’ held out his hands invitin’ like. ‘Come here, sonny,’ says he
to the kid in English, ‘come on over here an’ let’s have a look at you.’

“Well, sir, that youngster gave a funny little laugh, right out through
his tears, an’ come runnin’.

“The old woman didn’t know what to do; but I was keepin’ one eye on her
so she didn’t dare try to start anything much.

“Bob, he asked the youngster, ‘What’s your name, sonny?’ an’ the little
feller answered back, bright as a dollar: ‘My name’s Marta.’

“‘Marta?’ says Bob, lookin’ up at me puzzled like. ‘That’s a funny name
for a boy.’

“‘I ain’t no boy,’ said the kid, quick as a flash, ‘I’m a girl, I am.’”

“An’ by smoke! she was,” ejaculated Bob.

“Yes,” continued Thad, “an’ when the old woman seen that the little gal
was talkin’ to us--the old woman she didn’t savvy a word of anything but
Mex, but she could tell what was goin’ on--when she see it, she jest
naterally grabbed the youngster an’ yanked her into the house an’ shut
the door.

“Me an’ Bob made camp not far away that night, an’ after supper, an’ it
had got good an’ dark, we was settin’ by the fire talkin’ things over,
when all at once we heard the sound of a wagon an’ a child
screamin’--sort of choked like. You can believe we wasn’t long gettin’
to where the sound come from. Them Mexicans was lightin’ out with that
little gal for across the border.

“By that time, me and my pardner was so plumb sure that there was
somethin’ wrong that we didn’t waste no more strength in foolishness. We
jest proceeded to give that hombre the third degree ’til he ups an’
confesses that the baby was left with them by some white folks who was
on a huntin’ trip, an’ that they was only keepin’ the youngster ’til her
daddy an’ mammy come back for her.

“You can guess how quick me an’ Bob was to believe any such yarn as
that; so we figured the safest thing to do was to take the baby
ourselves into Tucson; which we done.

“Well, sir, by the time we struck town the little gal had made such a
hit with us both that we couldn’t near think of givin’ her up.”

“Darndest affectionate kid that ever was,” put in Bob. “Started right
off first thing lovin’ us two old rapscallions like we’d always belonged
to her, an’ callin’ us both ‘daddy.’”

“We sure done our best to find her real folks, though,” said Thad. “We
stayed in Tucson for more’n a month. But the authorities nor nobody
couldn’t get no hint nowhere about any kid bein’ lost, nor stole, nor
nothin’. Things was movin’ pretty fast in this country them days, an’
the sheriff always had his hands full; so it wasn’t long ’til everybody
got busy with some fresh excitement, an’ me an’ Bob was left with the
baby on our hands. There didn’t appear to be nothin’ else we could do,
so we jest decided that Providence, or good luck, or somethin’, had
fixed it so’s us two old mavericks was blessed with a offspring whether
we was regularly entitled to one or not. Then pretty soon we moved on
over into the Graham Mountains, an’ jest naterally took her along.

“We both was lovin’ her so by now that we was about to fight to see
which one was to be her daddy, when we compromised by agreein’ to take
turn an’ turn about--week by week. An’ that’s how we come to give her
both our names--Hillgrove. Her first name is Martha, we suppose; but
Marta was the best she could ever tell us. An’ that’s about all there is
of it up to the time we fetched her here an’ you started in teachin’
her.”

“You see, ma’am,” said Bob, “this here is the way me an’ Thad has got it
figgered: The baby must have been left with them Mexicans where we found
her, ’cause she ain’t Mexican nor any part Mexican herself. Wal, what
kind of white folks do you reckon would go away an’ leave a little gal
like that, with such an outfit? They couldn’t a-left her accidental
like, ’cause if they had they’d a-come back for her, an’ then they’d
been huntin’ us. With all the fuss we made about it in Tucson, somebody
would a-knowed somethin’ about her sure, if her people hadn’t wanted to
get shet of her on account of them bein’ the sort they was. An’ there
ain’t been no time since then that me an’ Thad has been hard to find.
Don’t you see, her folks couldn’t a-been decent even if her father an’
mother was--was--I mean, even if she was borned all regular an’
right--which don’t look no way likely. Any way you take it, they must
a-been a bad sort to throw away a baby like her.”

“You can bet they was,” added Thad mournfully, “for it’s a dead immortal
cinch that them old Mexicans couldn’t a-come by her no other way;
’cause they never went anywhere an’ if they had stole her it sure would
a-raised enough interest in the country for somebody to a-heard about
it. No, sir, take it any way you like, it jest naterally looks bad.
An’,” the old prospector finished with an air of relief, “that’s all me
an’ my pardner knows about it.”

Saint Jimmy did not speak. He was evidently deeply moved by the strange
story. Mrs. Burton was drying her eyes. The Pardners waited, with no
little anxiety.

At last Bob asked timidly:

“Be you still thinkin’, sir, as how our gal ought to be told?”

Reluctantly, Saint Jimmy answered:

“I am afraid that Marta must know.”

He looked at his mother.

“I am sure she must know,” said Mrs. Burton with quiet decision. “And
you, my son, are the one to tell her. It will come to her easier from
you, her teacher, than from any one else.”

“Yes, ma’am,” cried Thad eagerly. “That’s the way me an’ Bob figgered
it.”

“Will you do it, sir?” asked Bob.

“Yes,” said Saint Jimmy, “I will tell her.”

The Pardners sighed with relief.

“That sure lets us out of a mighty bad hole,” said Thad. “It’ll be a
heap easier on our gal, too.”

“It sure will,” echoed Bob. “Ain’t nobody can tell what kind of a
God-awful mess us old fools would a-made of it. We’re almighty grateful
to you, sir, for helpin’ us out.”

“We are that,” came from Thad with pathetic earnestness.

Bob said hurriedly:

“An’ now that it’s all settled, Pardner, I move that me an’ you pulls
out of here before our gal happens along. I wouldn’t be ketched by her
right now for all the money we’re goin’ to have when we strike that big
vein we’re tunnelin’ for.”

“Which ain’t so much as it might be at that,” retorted Thad.

“You can’t never tell,” returned Bob with his usual cheery optimism,
“gold is where you find it.”

When Bob and Thad were gone, Saint Jimmy and his mother, discussing the
matter, were forced to agree with the Pardners. It certainly did look
bad. In fact it looked so bad that Saint Jimmy was not at all happy
under the burden of the responsibility which the old prospectors had
shifted from their own shoulders to his. He foresaw that it would not be
easy to tell this young woman whom he had educated, and whose fine,
sensitive pride he knew so well, this story that he had just heard from
her two foster fathers.

When Marta stopped at the Burtons’ on her way home from Oracle, later in
the day, neither Saint Jimmy nor his mother mentioned the Pardners’
visit, and there seemed to be no opportunity for the girl’s teacher to
tell her the story he was so sure she should know. Some other time, he
told himself, it would be easier, perhaps.

       *       *       *       *       *

While the Pardners’ daughter was riding home from the Burtons’ that
afternoon, and the Pardners were at work in their little mine, Natachee
the Indian stood on a point of rock, high on the mountain side--so high
that he could look beyond the Cañon of Gold and afar off, over the brown
desert that, from the foothills of the Catalinas, stretches away, weary
mile after weary mile, until, in the shadowy blue distance, it is lost
in the sky.

To those of us who are accustomed to the present-day Indian in his white
man’s garb, doing the white man’s work on the white man’s roads and
ranches, Natachee would have aroused peculiar, not to say amusing,
interest. From the single feather in the headband which bound his long,
raven-black hair to his beaded moccasins, he was dressed in the
picturesque costume of his savage fathers. Save for a broad hunting
knife, he was armed only with the primitive bow and arrows. He was in
the best years of his manhood and his face and bearing would have graced
the hero of a Fenimore Cooper Indian tale.

But however much he seemed out of step with the times, that lone figure,
standing sentinel-like on the rocky point, fitted his wild surroundings.
So, indeed, might one of his ancestors have stood to watch the strange
new human life when it first began to move along those trails that,
until then, had known only the sandaled and moccasined feet of
prehistoric peoples.

An hour passed. The Indian held his place as motionless as the rock
against which he leaned, while his somber gaze ranged over those mighty
reaches of desert and mountain and sky. High over Rice Peak a golden
eagle wheeled on guard before the nest of his royal mate. But Natachee
seemed not to see. From a dead oak on Samaniego Ridge a red-tailed hawk
screamed his shrill challenge. The Indian apparently did not hear. A
company of buzzards circled above a dark object in the wash below the
Wheeler Ranch corrals. Natachee gave no heed. A ground squirrel leaped
to a near-by rock to sit bolt upright with bright eyes fixed upon the
red man, the while he sounded a chirping note of inquiry. But the
Indian’s gaze remained steadfastly fixed on that distant landscape where
he could see a cloud of dust that was raised by a swiftly moving
automobile on the Oracle road. On the Bankhead Highway there were two
similar clouds. In the purple haze beyond the point of the Tortollita
Mountains, a streamer of smoke marked the position of a Southern Pacific
Overland train that was approaching Tucson from the western coast. The
face of the red watchman on the mountain side was set stern and grim. In
his somber eyes there was a gleam of savage meaning.

The sun was just touching the tops of the Tucson hills when the Indian
started and leaned forward with suddenly quickened interest.

No ordinary power of human vision would have noticed that black speck in
the vast stretch of country, much less could the ordinary observer have
said exactly what it was that had attracted the Indian’s attention. But
Natachee saw that the tiny dot, moving so slowly on the old road into
the Cañada del Oro, was a man. His interest was excited to an unusual
degree because the man was walking, unaccompanied even by a pack burro.

And now the evening wind from the desert, fragrant with the smell of
greasewood, mesquite and cat-claw, swept along the mountain side. The
Tucson hills were massed dark blue with their outlines sharply cut
against the colors of the sunset. Natachee, watching, saw that lone
figure on the trail below enter the Cañon of Gold and lose itself in the
gathering dusk.

As the shadows thickened, the night prowlers on padded feet crept from
their dark retreats into the gloom. Owls and bats on silent wings swept
by. Old ghosts of the dead past stirred again on the old desert and
mountain ways. In the deeper dusk that now filled the cañon, voices
awoke--strange, murmuring, whispering, phantom voices that seemed to
come from an innumerable company of dreary, hopeless souls. The light
went out of the western sky. Details of plant and rock and bush were
lost. Weird and wild, like a mysterious spirit brooding over the scene,
the dark figure of the Indian on the rocky point above the Cañon of Gold
was silhouetted against the starlit sky.

In the little white house on the mountain side, Saint Jimmy was thinking
of the strange story that the Pardners had told.

       *       *       *       *       *

In their home beside the cañon creek, the old prospectors and their
partnership daughter were sleeping, with no dreams of the strange
leading of the tangled threads of lives to the Cañon of Gold.

Far away to the south, in old Mexico, two men sat in a cantina. Between
them, on a table, with glasses and a bottle of mescal, lay a crudely
drawn map. As they talked together in low tones, they referred often to
the rude sketch which bore in poorly written words “La mina con la
puerta de fierro en la Cañada del Oro”--The mine with the door of iron
in the Cañon of the Gold.




CHAPTER VI

NIGHT

     Night skies are kind to those who love the stars; to others they
     are heavy with brooding fears.


The man who was following the old road up the Cañon of Gold had made his
way a mile or more from the point where he was last seen by the Indian,
when the deepening twilight warned him of the nearness of the night. It
was evident, from the pedestrian’s irresolute movements and from his
manner of nervous doubt in selecting a spot for his camp, that not only
was he a stranger in the Cañada del Oro, but as well that he was
unaccustomed to such surroundings.

He was a young man of about twenty-two or twenty-three years--tall, but
rather slender, with a face habitually clean shaven but covered, just
now, with a stubby beard of several days’ growth. His skin, where it was
exposed, was sunburned rather than tanned that deep color so marked in
the out-of-doors men of the West. On the whole, he gave the impression,
somehow, of one but recently recovered from a serious illness; and yet
he did not appear overfatigued, though the pack which he carried was not
light and he had evidently been many hours on the road. In spite of his
rude dress and unkempt appearance due to his mode of traveling there
was, in his bearing, the unmistakable air of a man of business. But he
was that type of business man that knows something more than the daily
grind of money-making machines. His world, apparently, was not wholly a
world of factories and banks and institutions of commerce.

Forced, at last, by the approaching darkness, to decide upon some place
to spend the night, the traveler selected a spot beside the cañon creek,
a hundred yards from the road. But even after he had lowered his heavy
pack to the ground, he stood for some minutes looking anxiously about,
as if still uncertain as to the wisdom of his selection.

Nor was the man’s manner wholly that of inexperience. Suddenly, without
thought of his evening meal, or any preparation for his comfort until
the morning, he climbed again up the steep bank to the road, where he
gazed back along the way he had come and studied the mountain sides with
eyes of dread. The man was in an agony of fear. Not until it was too
dark to distinguish objects at any distance did he return to the place
where he had left his pack and set about the necessary work of preparing
his supper and making his bed.

Hurriedly, as best he could in the failing light, he gathered a supply
of wood and, after several awkward failures, succeeded in kindling a
fire. From his pack he took a small frying pan, a coffeepot, a tin cup,
and a meager supply of food. With these, and with water from the creek,
he made shift to prepare an unaccustomed meal. Several times he paused,
to stand gazing into the fire as if lost in thought. Again and again he
turned his head quickly to listen. Often with a shuddering start he
whirled to search the darkness beyond the flickering shadows, as if in
fear of what the light of his fire might bring upon him. When he had
eaten his poorly prepared supper, he spread his blankets and lay down.

There was something pitiful in the trivial and puny details of this lone
stranger’s camp in the wild Cañada del Oro. There was something sinister
in the night life that crept and crawled in the darkness about him.
There was something pathetic in the man’s lying down to sleep,
unprotected, amid such surroundings.

The mountains are very friendly to those who know them; to those who
know them not, they are grim and dreadful--when the day is gone. Night
skies are kind to those who love the stars; to others they are heavy
with brooding fears. The timid life of the wild places is good company
for those who know each voice and sound; to others every movement is a
menace, every call a voice of danger--when the sun is down.

Cowering in his blankets the man listened for a while to the strange and
fearful things that stirred in the near-by bushes, on the rocky ledges,
and on the mountain sides above. He heard the cañon voices whispering,
murmuring, moaning. The night deepened. The boisterous song of the creek
became a sullen growl. The mountain walls seemed to close in. The stars
above the peaks and ridges were lonely and far away. The camp fire, so
tiny in the gloom, burned low.

The sleeping man groaned and stirred uneasily as if in pain, and a fox
that had crept too close slipped away in startled flight. The man cried
out in his sleep, and a coyote that was following the scent of the camp
up the wind turned aside to slink into the thicket of mesquite. The man
awoke and springing to his feet stood as if at bay, and a buck that was
feeding not far away lifted his antlered head to listen with wary
alertness. From somewhere on the heights came the cry of a mountain
lion, and at the sound the night was suddenly as still as death. The man
shuddered and quickly threw more wood on the dying fire. Again he lay
down to cower in his blankets--to sleep restlessly--and to dream his
troubled dreams.

In the first faint light of the morning, a dark form might have been
seen moving stealthily down the mountain above the stranger’s camp. The
buck, with a snort of fear, leaped away, crashing through the brush. The
prowling coyote fled down the cañon. On every side the wild creatures of
the night slunk into the dense covers of manzanita and buckthorn and
cat-claw.

Silently, as the gray shadows through which he crept, Natachee the
Indian drew near the place where the white man lay. From behind a
near-by bush the Indian observed every detail of the camp. When the
form wrapped in the blanket did not stir, the Indian stole from his
sheltering screen and with soft-footed, noiseless movements, inspected
the stranger’s outfit. He even bent over the sleeping man to see his
face. The man moved--tossing an arm and muttering. Swift as a fox the
Indian slipped away; silent as a ghost he disappeared among the bushes.

The gray of the morning sky changed to saffron and rose and flaming red.
The shadowy trees and bushes assumed definite shapes. The detail of the
rocks emerged from the gloom. The man awoke.

He had just finished breakfast when he heard the sound of horse’s hoofs
on the road. With a startled cry he leaped to his feet. The Lizard was
riding toward him.

Like a hunted creature the man drew back, half crouching, as if to
escape. But it was too late. Pale and trembling he stood waiting as the
horseman drew up beside the road, on the bank above the creek, and sat
looking down upon him and his camp.




CHAPTER VII

THE STRANGER’S QUEST

     “What’s yer name? Whar ye from? What’re you a-doin’ here?”


The Lizard’s preliminary inspection of the stranger and his camp might
or might not have been prompted by a habit of caution. When it was
finished he called a loose-mouthed “Howdy” and, without waiting for a
response to his greeting, spurred his mount, slipping and sliding with
rolling stones and a cloud of dust, down to the edge of the creek.

Dismounting and throwing the bridle rein over his horse’s head, he
slouched forward--a vapid grin on his sallow, weasel-like face.

“I seed yer smoke an’ ’lowed as how I’d drop along an’ take a look at
who’s here; bein’ as I war aimin’ t’ ride t’ Oracle sometime t’-day
anyhow. Not as I’ve got anythin’ perticler t’ go thar fer nuther, ’cept
t’ jist set in front of th’ store a spell an’ gas with th’ fellers.
Thar’s allus a bunch hangin’ ’round of a Sunday.”

He looked curiously at the stranger’s outfit and, ignoring the fact that
the camper had not spoken, seated himself with the air of one taking his
welcome for granted.

The stranger smiled. The fear that had so shaken him a few moments
before was gone, and there was relief in his voice as he bade his
visitor a quite unnecessary welcome.

“Ye’r a-footin’ hit, be ye?” the Lizard continued with garrulous ease.
“Wal, that’s one way of goin’; but I’ll take a good hoss fer mine. A
feller’ll jist naterally wear out quick ernough no matter how keerful
he’d be. Never ’lowed I had ary call t’ take an’ plumb _walk_ myse’f t’
death on purpose. Them’s good blankets you’ve got thar. Need ’em, too,
these nights, if ’tis spring. That thar coffeepot ain’t no ’count,
though--not fer me, that is--wouldn’t hold half what I’d take three
times a day, reg’lar.” He laughed loudly as if a good joke were hidden
somewhere in his remarks if only the other were clever enough to find
it.

“You live in this neighborhood, do you?” the stranger asked.

“What, me? Oh shore. My name’s Bill Janson--live down th’ cañon a piece,
jist below whar th’ road comes in. Paw an’ maw an’ me live thar
t’gether. We drifted in from Arkansaw eight year ago come this fall.
What’s yer name? Whar ye from? What’re you a-doin’ here?”

The stranger hesitated before he answered slowly:

“My name is--Edwards--Hugh Edwards. I came here from Tucson. I want to
prospect--look for gold, you know. I heard there were some--ah--placers,
I think you call them, in this cañon.”

The Lizard grinned, a wide-mouthed grin of superior knowledge. “Hit’s
plumb easy t’ see y’ know all about prospectin’. Y’r some edicated, I
jedge. Ben t’ school an’ them thar college places a right smart lot,
ain’t y’ now?”

The other replied with some sharpness:

“I suppose it is not impossible for one to learn how to dig for gold,
even if one has learned to read and write, is it?”

The Lizard responded heartily, but with tolerant superiority:

“Larn--shore--ain’t nothin’ t’ pannin’ gold ’cept a lot of hard work an’
mighty pore pay. Anybody’ll larn ye. Take the Pardners up yonder--old
Bob Hill an’ Thad Grove--they’d--“ he checked himself suddenly and
slapped a lean thigh. “By Glory! I’ll bet a pretty you’ve done come t’
find that thar old lost Mine with th’ Iron Door, heh? Ain’t ye now?” He
leered at the stranger with shifty, close-set eyes, his long head with
its narrow sloping brow cocked sidewise with what was meant to be a very
knowing, “I-have-you-now-sir” sort of air.

The man who had given his name as Hugh Edwards laughed.

“Really I can’t say that I would object to finding any old mine if it
was a good one, would you?”

The Lizard shook his head solemnly and with a voice and manner that was
nicely calculated to invite confidence, replied:

“Thar’s been a lot of people, one time an’ another, a-huntin’ this Mine
with th’ Iron Door. Thar was one bunch that come clean from Spain; an’
they had a map an’ everythin’. You ain’t got no map ner writin’ of any
sort, now, have you?”

“No,” returned the stranger. “But I suppose it is true that there is
gold to be found here?”

The Lizard was plainly disappointed but evidently deemed it unwise to
press his inquiry.

“Oh, shore, thar’s gold here--some--fer them what likes t’ work fer hit.
They’ve allus been a-diggin’ in this here cañon an’ in these here
mountains, as ye kin see by their old prospect holes everywhar. But
nobody ain’t never made no big strikes yet. Thar’s one feller a-livin’
in these hills what don’t dig no gold though; an’ they do say, too, as
how he knows more ’bout th’ ol’ lost mine than ary other man a-livin’.
Some says he even knows whar hits at.” The Lizard shook his head
solemnly. “You shore want t’ watch out fer _him_, too. He’s plumb
bad--that’s what I’m a-tellin’ you.”

“Yes?” said Hugh Edwards, encouragingly.

“Uh-huh, he ain’t no white man neither. He’s Injun--calls hisse’f
Natachee, whatever that is. He’s one of these here school Injuns gone
wild agin--lives all ’lone way in the upper part of th’ cañon somewhar,
whar hits so blamed rough a goat couldn’t get ’round; an’ togs hisse’f
up with th’ sort of things them old-time Injuns used to wear--won’t even
use a gun, jist packs a bow an’ arrers. I ain’t got no use fer an Injun
nohow. This here’s a white man’s country, I say, an’ this here Natachee
he’s the worst I ever did see. He’d plunk one of them thar arrers of
hisn inter you, er slit yer throat any old time if he dast. I can’t say
fer shore whether he knows about this Mine with th’ Iron Door er not,
but hit’s certain shore you got t’ watch him. Hit’s all right fer that
thar Saint Jimmy an’ them old Pardners t’ be friends with him if they
like hit, but I know what I know.”

Hugh Edwards did not overlook this opportunity to learn something of the
people who lived in the Cañon of Gold; and the Lizard was more than
willing to tell all he knew, perhaps even to add something for good
measure. When at last the Lizard arose reluctantly, the stranger had
heard every current version of the history and relationship of the two
old prospectors and their partnership daughter, with copious comments on
their characters, sidelights on their personal affairs, their
intercourse with their neighbors, their business, and every possible
theory explaining them.

“Not that thar’s anybody what really knows anythin’,”--the Lizard was
careful to make this clear--“’cept of course that old story ’bout them
a-findin’ th’ gal somewhars when she warn’t much more’n a baby; which,
as I say, ain’t no way nateral enough fer anybody t’ believe--’cause
babies like her ain’t jist found--picked up anywhar, as you may say,
without no paw ner maw ner nothin’. An’ if thar warn’t somethin’ wrong
about hit, what would them two old devils be so close-mouthed fer? Why,
sir, one time when I asked ’em about hit--jist sort of interested an’
neighborly like--they ris up like they was a-fixin’ t’ climb all over
me. Yes, they did--ye kin see yerself hit ain’t all straight, whatever
’tis. Even a feller like you can’t help puttin’ two an’ two together if
he’s got any sense a-tall.

“Wal,” he concluded regretfully, “I shore got t’ be gittin’ on t’ Oracle
er hit won’t be no use fer me t’ go, nohow.” He moved slowly toward his
horse. “Better come along,” he added. “This here trail t’ Oracle goes
right past the Pardners’ place, an’ Saint Jimmy’s an’ George Wheeler’s.
Best come along an’ see th’ country an’ git acquainted.”

“Thanks,” said Edwards, “but really I can’t go to-day. I want to get
settled somewhere before I take much time for purely social matters, you
see.”

“Huh,” grunted the Lizard, “gettin’ settled ain’t nothin’; hit’s all day
’til t’morrer ain’t hit?” Then, as if suddenly inspired with the
possibilities of having a friend at the very source of so much
interesting, if speculative, information, the Lizard added: “I’ll tell
ye what ye do, you come along with me as fer as th’ Pardners’ place.
They’ll he’p ye t’ get located. They’re all right that a-way, an’ there
ain’t nothin’ them two old-timers don’t know about th’ prospectin’ game.
An’ right up th’ cañon, not more’n a half a quarter from them, is an old
cabin you could take. Hit war built by some prospector long time ago.
George Wheeler, he told me. Seems th’ feller lived thar fer two er three
year an’ then went away an’ didn’t never come back. You might have t’
fix th’ shack up a bit, but that wouldn’t be no work; an’ thar’s allus
some gold t’ be found up an’ down th’ creek. Th’ Pardners they’ll larn
ye how, an’ mebby _you_ kin larn somethin’ ’bout them an’ that thar gal
of theirn.”

“Thank you,” returned Edwards, “but I really can’t go now. I am not
packed yet, you see.”

But the Lizard was not to be deprived of the advantage of his
opportunity. “Aw, shucks--what’s th’ matter with ye? Grab yer stuff an’
come along. Ye can’t be stand-offish with me.”

Because there seemed to be no way of refusing the invitation, the
stranger hastily threw his things together and, with his pack on his
back, set out up the cañon in company with the Lizard.

On the steep side of the mountain above, Natachee, creeping like a dark
shadow among the rocks and bushes, followed the two men.

       *       *       *       *       *

Saint Jimmy, that Sunday morning, was sitting with a book by the window.
But Mother Burton, looking through the door from their tiny kitchen
where she was busy with her household work, could see that her son was
not reading. Jimmy’s book was open, but his eyes were fixed upon the far
distant horizon where the desert, with its dreamy maze of colors,
becomes a faint blue shadow against the sky. And Jimmy’s mother knew
that his thoughts were as far from the printed page as that shadowy
sky-line was distant from the window where he sat.

Often she had seen him in those moods--sitting so still that the spirit
seemed to have gone out from its temporary dwelling place to visit for
a little those places which lie so far beyond the horizon of all fleshly
vision and earthly hopes and aspirations. Of what was he thinking, she
wondered, if indeed it could be said at such times that he was thinking
at all. What was he seeing, with that far-away look in his eyes, as of
one whose vision had been trained in the schools of suffering, of
disappointments, and failures, and disillusions, to a more than physical
strength. Was he communing with some one over there in that world beyond
the sky-line of material things? Was he merely dreaming of what might
have been? Or was he living in what might be? Wise Mother Burton, to
know that there were certain rooms in her son’s being that even her
mother love could not unlock. Wise Mother Burton, to understand, to
know, when to speak and when to be still.

Saint Jimmy was aroused at last by the clatter of iron-shod hoofs on the
cañon trail. An instant later, Nugget, running with glorious strength
and ease, dashed into view, and Marta’s joyous self came between the man
at the window and the distant sky-line. Another moment and the girl
stood in the open doorway.




CHAPTER VIII

THE NEW NEIGHBOR

     But what a man is, _that_ is a matter of concern to every one who
     is called by circumstance to associate with him.


With a merry greeting to Saint Jimmy, Marta ran straight to the
welcoming arms of Mother Burton.

“Goodness me, child,” the older woman exclaimed when she had kissed her
and held her close for a moment as such mothers do, “you look as if--as
if you were going to jump right out of your skin; I do declare!”

And Saint Jimmy, watching them, silently agreed with his mother,
thinking that he had never seen the girl quite so animated. Her vivid,
flamelike beauty seemed to fill the house with joyous warmth and light,
while her laughter, in quick response to Mrs. Burton’s words, rang with
such happy abandon, and thrilled with such tingling excitement, that her
teacher knew something unusual must have happened.

“What is it?” cried Mother Burton, shaking the girl playfully, and
laughing with her. “What is the matter with you? What are you so excited
about? Have Thad and Bob struck it rich at last?”

Marta shook her head.

“No, but it is something almost as good. We have a new neighbor.”

Mother Burton looked from Marta to her son inquiringly, as if mildly
puzzled to know why the mere arrival of a newcomer in the neighborhood,
unusual as it was, should cause such manifestations.

Saint Jimmy, smiling, asked:

“What is his name? Where is he from? And what is he like?”

The girl’s face was glowing with color and her eyes were bright as she
answered:

“His name is Hugh Edwards. He came here from Tucson. I didn’t quite
understand where he lived before he went to Tucson.” She paused and the
ghost of a troubled frown fell across her brow. “But it was somewhere,”
she finished brightly.

“Quite likely you are right,” said Jimmy, grave as a judge on the bench.

“Yes,” she continued, “and he has come here to stay. He is awfully
poor--poorer than any of us. Why, he hasn’t even a burro to pack his
outfit--had to pack it himself on his back, and he has been sick too,
but he doesn’t look a bit sick now.” She laughed a little laugh of
charming confusion. “He looks as if--as if--oh, as if he could do just
anything--you know what I mean.”

“You make it very clear,” murmured Saint Jimmy.

Mother Burton made a curious little noise in her throat.

Marta looked from one to the other suspiciously. Then a bit defiantly
she said:

“I don’t care, he does. And he is different from anybody that ever came
to the Cañada del Oro before--for that matter, he is different from
anybody that I have ever seen anywhere.”

“Dear me,” murmured Mother Burton, “how interesting! But how is he
different, dear?”

The girl answered honestly:

“I can’t exactly tell what it is. For one thing, it is easy to see that
he is educated. But of course Jimmy is too, so it can’t be _that_. I am
sure, too, that he has lived in a big city somewhere and has known lots
of nice people, but so has Jimmy. I don’t know what it is.”

“I judge he is not, then, one of our typical old prospectors,” said
Saint Jimmy.

Again the girl’s joyous, unaffected laughter bubbled forth.

“Old! He is no older than you are; I suspect not quite so old, and he
has the nicest eyes, almost as nice as you, Jimmy--only, only different,
somehow--nice in another way, I mean. And he knows absolutely nothing
about prospecting. He is so green it is funny. But he’s going to live in
the old Dalton cabin right next door to us and we’re going to teach
him.”

“Fine,” said Saint Jimmy with proper enthusiasm, and managed somehow to
hide the queer, sinking pain that made itself felt suddenly down deep
inside of him. Saint Jimmy was skilled by long practice in hiding pain.

“Dear me!” exclaimed Mother Burton. “This is interesting. But I must
finish my morning work,” she added, moving toward the kitchen.

“I’ll help,” volunteered Marta quickly, and started after the older
woman.

But Mother Burton answered:

“No, no, I was almost finished when you came.” Then catching the girl in
her arms impulsively, and looking toward her son whose face was turned
again to the far-off horizon, she added in a hurried whisper: “Get him
out of doors, dear, he has been sitting like that all this blessed
morning--make him go for a walk.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Marta led her teacher straight to their favorite spot on the mountain
side, some distance from the house. Here, in the shade of a gnarled and
twisted cedar that for a century or more had looked down upon the varied
life that moved through the Cañon of Gold below, they had spent many an
hour over the girl’s studies. Against the bole of the tree they had
contrived a rude shelf and pegs for hats and wraps. Mrs. Burton had
contributed an old kitchen table and two chairs that neither rain nor
sun could injure, and there was a large, flat-topped rock that served as
bookcase and desk, or for a variety of other purposes, as it might
happen.

On this occasion, Marta converted the rock into a couch by throwing
herself full length upon it with the unconscious freedom of a schoolboy.
Saint Jimmy seated himself in a chair and, in defiance of all
schoolmaster propriety, elevated his feet to the table top.

They talked a while, as neighbors will, of the small affairs of the
country side. But Doctor Burton could see that Marta’s thoughts were not
of the things they were saying; and so, presently, from her rocky couch,
the girl spoke again of the stranger who had come to be her nearest
neighbor. She described him now in fuller detail--his eyes, his voice,
his smile. She contrasted him with the Pardners, the Lizard, and with
other men whom she had seen. She imagined fanciful stories for his past
and invented for him various wonderful futures. And always she came back
to the curious assertion that he was like her teacher, only different.

And Saint Jimmy, as he listened, asked an occasional encouraging
question and studied her as in his old professional days he might have
studied a patient. Never before had he seen the girl in such a mood. It
was as if something deep-buried in her inner self was striving to break
its way through to the surface of her being, as a deep-buried seed, when
its time comes, forces its way through the dark earth to the light and
sun.

Then for some time the girl was silent. With her head pillowed on one
arm, and her eyes half closed, she lay as if she had drifted with the
currents of her wandering thoughts into the quietude of dreams--dreams
that were as intangible, yet as real, as the blue haze and purple
shadows through which she saw the distant desert and mountains.

And Saint Jimmy, too, was still; while his face was turned away toward
the far-off horizon, as if he saw there things which he might not talk
about.

On the pine-clad heights of Mount Lemmon there were a few scattered
patches of snow that had not yet yielded to the spring; but the air was
soft and fragrant with the perfumes of warm earth and growing plants and
opening blossoms. There was the low hum of the bees that were mining in
the fragrant cat-claw bushes for the gold they stored in their wild
treasure-houses in the cliffs. Not far away a gambrel partridge
gallantly assured his plump gray mate, who sat on the nest in the
shelter of a tall mescal plant, that there was no danger. A Sonora
pigeon, from the top of a lone sahuaro, called his soft, deep-throated
mating call. And a vermilion flycatcher sprang into the air from his
perch near-by and climbed higher and higher into the blue and then,
after holding himself aloft for a moment, puffed out his red feathers,
and, twittering in a mad love ecstasy, came drifting back like a
brilliant-colored thistle bloom, or an oversized and fiery-tinted
dandelion tuft.

Marta’s teacher had not forgotten that the Pardners had trusted him to
tell their girl the things that they--Saint Jimmy and his mother--were
agreed she should know. And Saint Jimmy meant to tell her. But somehow
this did not seem to be the time. He stole a look at the girl lying on
the rocks. No, this was not the time. He could not tell her just now.
He would wait. Some other time, perhaps, it would be easier.

“Jimmy,” said the girl at last, and her words came slowly as if she
spoke out of the haze of her dreams, “when you went to school--I don’t
mean when you were just a little boy, but when you were almost a
man--was it a big school?”

Saint Jimmy did not answer at once, then, without taking his eyes from
what ever it was that he was looking at in the distance, he said:

“Why, yes, it was a fairly large school.”

“And were there both men and women students?”

“Yes, there were a good many women in the University, and a few in the
medical school, where I finally finished.”

“I expect you had lots of friends, didn’t you, Jimmy? I should think you
would--men and women friends both. And I suppose there were all kinds of
good times--parties and dances and picnics.”

Doctor Burton turned suddenly to look at her. “What in the world are you
driving at now?”

“Please, Jimmy,” she said wistfully, “I want to know.”

And something made him look away again.

“I suppose I had my share of friends,” he answered. “And there was a
reasonable amount of fun, as there always is at school, you know. But
we--most of us--worked hard, too.”

“Yes,” she returned quickly, “and you dreamed and planned the great
things you would do in the world when your school days should be over,
and, in spite of all your friends and the good times, you could hardly
wait to begin--yes, I am sure that is the way it would be.”

Saint Jimmy did not speak.

“And when your school days were finished, and you were actually a doctor
in a big city, you still had lots of men and women friends, and you
found a little time, now and then, for parties and--and dinners and such
things, didn’t you, Jimmy?”

Saint Jimmy smiled, a patient, shadowy smile as he answered:

“My practice at first certainly left me plenty of time for other
things.”

The girl did not notice the smile, because she was not looking at her
companion.

“You lived in a nice house, too, with books and pictures and--and
carpets on the floors. Do you know, I think I have wanted more than
anything else in the world to live in a house with carpets on the
floors. That is, I mean, I have wanted it ever since I knew there were
such things. Do you know, Jimmy, I never saw a house with carpets until
that first day I came to see you and Mother Burton?”

She laughed a little.

“That was a long, long time ago, wasn’t it? And I couldn’t much more
than read then. Gee! how scared I was of you and Mother Burton.”

“You have made wonderful progress in your studies and in every way,”
said Jimmy, proudly.

“Yes,” she returned. “The carpets did it--the carpets and you and Mother
Burton. I don’t see how you ever managed to teach me, though. I guess
you just learned by doctoring so many sick people. It must be a
wonderful, satisfying work--helping people, I mean, like a doctor, or a
teacher, or any work like that. It’s not like just finding gold in the
ground. Even though you do have to work so hard to get the gold, it’s
not like--like working for _people_--or _with_ people. Getting gold out
of the ground seems to take you away from people. You don’t seem to be
doing anything for anybody--but only just for yourself. Prospectors and
workers like that ’most always live alone, I have noticed. I don’t think
many of them are very happy either. I have seen quite a lot of
prospectors in my time, you know, Jimmy. In fact, except for you,
prospectors and that sort are the only kind of men I have ever
known--until now.”

Saint Jimmy was watching her closely.

“Yes,” he said softly, as if he did not wish to disturb her mood.

“I suspect it was pretty hard, wasn’t it, Jimmy, when you got sick
yourself and had to give up your work and all your plans and leave your
nice home and all your friends and everything and come away out here to
get well, and then to find that you never could go back but must stay
here always--poor Jimmy! It must have been mighty hard.”

“It wasn’t exactly easy,” he said slowly, “not at first. I fought a good
deal until I learned better. After that it was not so hard--only at
times, perhaps. Even now, I rebel occasionally, but not for long.”

Which was as near a complaint as any one had ever heard from Doctor
Jimmy Burton.

“Jimmy,” said Marta earnestly, “I think that you are the most wonderful
man that ever was--that ever could be.”

Saint Jimmy shrugged his shoulders, and waved a protesting hand.

“But you are,” she insisted, “and you know how I love you, don’t you?
Not merely because you have helped me as you have, but because you are
_you_. You _do_ know, don’t you, Jimmy?”

There was an odd note in Jimmy’s voice now--it might have been
gladness--it might have been protest--or perhaps it was both--with a
hint of pain.

“Marta! I----“

He stopped as if he found himself suddenly unable to finish whatever it
was that he had started to say. It may be that this was one of the times
when Saint Jimmy was not wholly reconciled to the part that life had
assigned to him.

Apparently Marta did not notice her teacher’s manner. Her thoughts must
have been centered elsewhere because she said, quite as if she had been
considering it all the time:

“I feel sure that Mr. Edwards has been hurt some way, just as you have,
Jimmy. I mean that he has been to school, and had a world of nice
friends and good times, and then started his real work and all that,
and, now for some reason, has had to give up his work and home and
friends and everything, and come out here. He didn’t tell us much, but
you could sort of feel that he was that kind of a man. You _can_ feel
those things about men, can’t you, Jimmy?”

Jimmy nodded:

“I suppose so.”

“I don’t know why he didn’t tell us more about himself--about before he
came to Tucson, I mean. Perhaps he will some day; but he acts as if he
didn’t like to think about it now. You know what I mean, don’t you?”

“Yes, I know.”

“It is rather important that one have a past, isn’t it, Jimmy?” She
smiled as she added: “Rather important that one have the right kind of a
past, I mean.”

“To my mind it is quite important,” answered Jimmy soberly. And suddenly
he remembered again the story that the Pardners had told.

She nodded thoughtfully.

“You have talked to me a lot about heredity and breeding and good blood
and early environment and those things. I suspect it is your being a
doctor that makes you consider them as you do. And Mother Burton, she
has told me a lot, too, about your ancestors, away back. And so I can
see that it is your past and the things you have to remember that make
you the kind of a man you are. If you didn’t have the father and mother
that you had, and the fathers and mothers that they had, and if you
hadn’t had the schools and the friends and the home with carpets and
the work of helping people that you have had, why, you wouldn’t be you
at all, would you, Jimmy?”

Saint Jimmy moved uneasily. He wished now, in the light of the Pardners’
story and their conclusion as to the birth and parentage of this girl,
that he had not included some subjects in his pupil’s course of study.

Marta continued as if, scarcely conscious of her companion’s presence,
she were thinking aloud.

“And so if--if any one else _did_ have the same kind of things to
remember that you have, he would be the same kind of a man that you
are--not exactly, of course. He might not be a doctor, or might not be
sick, but on the whole--well--you see what I mean, don’t you, Jimmy?”

Saint Jimmy was quite sure that he saw her meaning. In fact, Doctor
Burton was fast being convinced that he realized, more clearly than
Marta herself, the real meaning of her unusual mood. Her next words
confirmed his fast-growing suspicion that, however scientifically right
he had been in his teaching, he had not been altogether kind in
stressing certain truths.

“It’s funny that I never really thought of it before,” she said, “but I
don’t seem to have any past at all. All I can remember is just moving
around with my two fathers, who, of course, are not my fathers at
all--at least not both of them. And, if it were not for you and Mother
Burton, we wouldn’t have stayed here any longer than we did the other
places. I think I must have been born while my real father and mother
were moving somewhere. I never cared much about it before, Jimmy, but
somehow I wish--now--that I--that I knew who I am. I wish--I wish--I had
things to remember--such as you and Mr. Edwards have--schools and
friends and good times and a home with carpets--I mean.”

There was a suspicious brightness in the frank eyes and her lips were
trembling a little; a state of affairs very unusual to the Pardners’
daughter.

Saint Jimmy realized that it was going to be even harder than he had
foreseen to make known to this girl the things he had promised to tell
her. Certainly he could not tell her just now.

His voice was gentle as he finally said:

“I wouldn’t worry about all that, if I were you, dear. You see, it
doesn’t really matter so much whether you know or not--your people must
have been the best kind of people because you are what you are, and
after all, it is what you are right now that counts. It is your own dear
self, and not what you might have been that matters, don’t you see? Why,
you have a better education already than most girls of your age. As for
the rest--the friends and all that--those will come in time, I am sure.”

She smiled her gratitude bravely, then:

“Jimmy, may I ask you something more--something real personal?”

“As personal as you like,” he answered gravely.

“Well, among all your friends at school, and among all the people you
met and knew afterwards, was there ever--was there ever one who was
more than all the others--one girl or woman, I mean?”

Jimmy considered, then deliberately:

“You mean, in my school days and before I was forced to give up my
work?”

She nodded.

“No,” said Jimmy readily. “Once or twice I thought there might be, but I
soon found out that I was mistaken--of course I am glad now that I found
it out.”

“But didn’t you, in all of your plans and dreams for your life and
work--didn’t you ever include some one, didn’t you ever plan for
a--for--well, for”--she finished triumphantly--“for two little boys like
the Wheelers have?”

“I looked forward in a general way to a home and children, as I think
every man does,” he answered.

She caught him up eagerly:

“You really think that every man includes such things in his plans?”

“At least,” he replied, “I fail to see how any normal, right-thinking
man can ignore such things in his life plans.”

“I wonder if that could be it?” said Marta.

“You wonder what?”

“If Mr. Edwards came to the Cañada del Oro because his plans included
some one who refused to be included.”

“Good Lord!” ejaculated Saint Jimmy under his breath.

“No,” she continued, “I don’t believe that is it. He doesn’t act as
though that was the reason.”

Suddenly her mood changed. She seemed to awaken to some hitherto
unrealized possibilities of her life, and to grasp with startled
fierceness a defiant truth.

“Jimmy,” she cried, “just because I have no past is no reason why I
should not have a future, is it?”

Before he could find an answer she went on, and her words came rushing,
tumbling, hurrying out, as if the floodgate of her emotions were
suddenly lifted and the passionate spirit of her released.

“I can see now that I have always been like our cañon creek in summer,
just playing along any old way, taking things as they are, without even
caring whether I stopped or not, but now--now I feel like the creek is
to-day, with its springtime life, boiling and roaring and leaping--I
won’t--I won’t be like the creek though--that for all its strength and
fuss and fury just fades away at last into nothing, out there in the
desert. I want to keep on going and going and going--I don’t know where.
I don’t care where, just on, and on, and on!”

She sprang to her feet and stood before him in all the radiant, vigorous
beauty of her young womanhood, and with reckless abandon challenged:

“Jimmy, let’s run away. Let’s go away off somewhere beyond the farthest
line yonder that you are always looking at; and then let’s keep on
going, just you and I. Wouldn’t it be fun if we were to be married? Why
shouldn’t we? You’re not too old--I’m not too young. We could live in a
little house somewhere--a house with carpets, Jimmy--and books and
pictures, and you could make music, and I would take care of you--Oh,
such good care of you, Jimmy. I’d cook all the things you like and ought
to eat, and wash for you, and mend your things, and you could go on
teaching me, and scolding me when I forgot to use the right words,
and--and--wouldn’t it be fun, Jimmy? Of course after a while Mother
Burton would come too--and perhaps there would be a place somewhere near
for my daddies to prospect--Oh, Jimmy, Jimmy, let’s go!”

Doctor Burton laughed, and it was well for the girl that she was still
too much of a child to know how often grim tragedy wears a mask of
mirth.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the stranger had told the Pardners and their daughter his simple
story--how he had been ill and could find no work in Tucson, and so had
come to the Cañada del Oro with the hope of finding enough gold to live
by, and Marta had ridden away to spend the Sunday with Saint Jimmy and
Mother Burton, Thad said doubtfully:

“I don’t see as there’s much we can do. We can’t learn nobody to find
gold whar it ain’t, an’ if we knowed whar it was we certain sure would
stake out some claims for ourselves, wouldn’t we? I don’t take no stock
in there bein’ anythin’ more than a color mebby, round that old Dalton
cabin yonder.”

“Gold is where you find it,” remarked Bob cheerfully. “You can’t never
tell when or where you’re going to strike it rich.”

“That’s all right,” retorted Thad. “But it stands to reason that if the
feller what built that cabin hadn’t of worked out his claim, he’d be
there workin’ on it yet, wouldn’t he? He quit and vamoosed because he’d
worked it out, I’m tellin’ you.”

Bob returned with energy:

“And I’m maintainin’ that no claim or mine or nothin’ else was ever
worked out. Folks jest quit workin’ on ’em, that’s all. There’s many and
many a mine been abandoned when three hours more--or one more shot,
mebby, would a-opened up a bonanza. This young man may go right up there
in the creek and stick in his pick a foot from where the other feller
took out his last shovel of dirt an’ turn up a reg’lar glory-hole. Don’t
you let him give you the dumps, Mr. Edwards, he’s the worst old
pessimist you ever see. There’s enough gold in this neighborhood to buy
all the bacon an’ beans you’ll need, long as you live, if you’re willin’
to scratch around for it; an’ you’ve got jest as good a chance as there
is to strike a real mine an’ make your everlastin’ fortune, too.”

“If you want my honest opinion, Mr. Edwards,” said Thad solemnly, as if
his pardner had not spoken, “you’ll be a fool to spend any time here.”

The younger man smiled:

“But you see, Mr. Grove, I am rather forced to do something right now.
As I told you, I’m not in a position to spend much time tramping about
the country looking for what might be a better place. All my
capital--all my worldly possessions, in fact--are in that pack there.
After all, you know the old saying,” he finished laughingly, “‘It takes
a fool for luck.’”

“That ain’t so,” growled Thad, “’cause if it was, my pardner there would
be as rich as Rockefeller and Morgan an’ the rest of them billionaires
all rolled into one.”

Bob grinned at Edwards reassuringly. Then he said to Thad:

“Now that you’ve got that off your mind, suppose we jest turn in an’ do
what we can for the boy here.”

“This here’s Sunday, ain’t it?” returned Thad, doubtfully. “Didn’t my
gal tell us yesterday that we couldn’t----“

“Your gal,” interrupted Bob, fiercely. “Your gal--huh. I’m here to tell
you that you’d best keep within your rights, Thad Grove, even if me an’
you be pardners. She’s my gal this week beginnin’ at sun-up this
mornin’, an’ you know it; an’ besides, there’s good scripture for us
helpin’ Mr. Edwards here to get located, even if ’tis Sunday.”

“Scripture!” said Thad scornfully. “What scripture?”

“It’s that there part where the Lord is linin’ ’em up about what they
did an’ what they didn’t do,” explained Bob. “Says He to one bunch,
‘When I was dead broke an’ hungry an’ thirsty an’ all but petered out,
you ornary skunks wouldn’t turn a hand to give me a lift, an’ so you
don’t need to figger that you’re goin’ to git in on the ground floor
with me now that I’ve struck pay dirt’--or words to that effect. An’
then to the other bunch He says: ‘You’re all right, Pardners; come on in
an’ make your pile along with me, ’cause I ain’t forgot how when I was a
stranger you took me in. You grubstaked me when I was down and out, an’
for that, all I’ve got now is yourn’--leastways, that’s the general
meanin’ of it.”

Whereupon Thad conceded that while it would be wrong actually to work on
the day of rest, it might be safe for them to show the stranger around
and sort of talk things over.

And all that day, while the two old prospectors were conducting him to
the cabin that, for the following months, was to be his home, while they
were showing him about the neighborhood and advising him in a general
way about his work, and as they sat at the dinner which Marta had left
prepared for them, Hugh Edwards felt that he was being weighed,
measured, analyzed. Nor did he in any way attempt to avoid or shirk the
ordeal. Fairly and squarely, with neither hesitation nor evasion, he met
those keen old eyes that for so many years had searched for the precious
metal that is hidden in the sands and rocks and gravel of desert wastes,
and lonely cañons, and those mountain places that are far remote from
the haunts of less hardy and courageous men.

They did not ask many questions about his past, for it is not the way
of such men to pry into another’s past. By their code a man’s personal
history is his own most private affair, to be given or withheld as he
himself elects. But what a man is, _that_ is a matter of concern to
every one who is called by circumstance to associate with him. They were
not particularly interested in what this man who had given his name as
Hugh Edwards _had_ been. They were mightily interested in discerning
what sort of a man Hugh Edwards, at that moment, was.

“Well, Pardner,” said Bob, later in the afternoon when Edwards, with
sincere expression of his gratitude, had left them to go to the cabin
which by common consent they now called his, “what do you make of him?”

Old Thad, rubbing his bald head, answered in--for him--an unusual vein:

“He’s a right likable chap, ain’t he, Bob? If I’d ever had a boy of my
own--that is, supposin’, first, I’d ever had a wife--I think I’d like
him to be jest about what I sense this lad is.” Then, as if alarmed at
this betrayal of what might be considered sentiment, the old prospector
suddenly stiffened, and added in his usual manner: “You can’t tell what
he is--some sort of a sneakin’ coyote, like as not, a-tryin’ to pass
hisself off as a harmless little cottontail. I’m for layin’ low an’
watchin’ his smoke mighty careful.”

“He’ll assay purty high-grade ore, I’m a-thinkin’,” said Bob.

“Time enough to invest when said assay has been made,” retorted Thad.
“It looks funny to me that a man of his eddication would be a-comin’ up
here in this old cañon to waste his time tryin’ to do somethin’ that he
don’t know no more about than a baby. Hard work, too; an’ anybody can
see he ain’t never done much of that.”

“He’s been sick,” returned Bob.

Thad grunted:

“Huh! If he was, it was a long time ago. Did you notice the weight of
that pack--He’s a totin’ it like it warn’t nothin’ at all.”

“He looks kind of pale when his hat is off,” said Bob.

To which Thad returned:

“He’s mighty perticler about where he was an’ what he was doin’ for a
livin’ before he blew into Tucson.”

“As for that,” returned Bob, “there’s been some things happen since me
an’ you was first pardners that we ain’t jest exactly a-wavin’ in the
wind--an’ look at us now.”

Thad’s dry retort was inevitable:

“Yes, jest look at us!”

Bob chuckled.

“_You_ ain’t so mighty much to look at, I admit.”

“Well,” said Thad, “as long as my gal thinks I’m all right, you----“

“My gal--_my_ gal,” snapped Bob. “Why have you allus got to be a-tryin’
to do me out of my rights. You know well as I do this is my week.”

“Excuse me, Pard,” the other apologized in all seriousness. “And that
leads me to remark that your gal didn’t appear altogether indifferent
an’ uninterested in this young prospectin’ neighbor of ours. You took
notice, too, I reckon.”

“I ain’t blind, be I?” answered Bob. “An’ why wouldn’t she take notice?
My gal ain’t no wizened-up old mummy like me an’ you. Why wouldn’t she
take notice of a fine, up-standin’ clean-eyed, straight-limbed,
fair-spoken youngster like him, heh? It’s nateral enough--an’ right
enough too, I reckon.”

Old Thad, with sudden rage, shook his long finger at his pardner and, in
a voice that was high pitched and trembling with emotion, cried:

“Nateral enough, you poor old, thick-headed, ossified, wreck of manhood,
you. Nateral enough! Holy Cats! It’s _too_ nateral, that’s what I’m a
meanin’, it’s _too_ nateral--whether it’s all right or all wrong--it’s
too almighty nateral--that’s what it is.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Later, when Marta had returned to her home in the Cañon of Gold--when
the sun was down and the shadow of the approaching night was deepening
over desert and mesa and mountain--a cowboy on his way to the home ranch
stopped to listen as the music of Saint Jimmy’s flute came soft and
clear through the quiet of the evening, from that spot beneath the old
cedar tree, high on the mountain side. A wandering Mexican, camped near
Juniper Spring below, heard and crossed himself. Natachee the Indian who
was following a faint trail toward the wild upper cañon heard and
smiled. Jimmy’s mother heard, and her eyes filled with tears.




CHAPTER IX

“GOLD IS WHERE YOU FIND IT”

     “As the ocean calls the water of the rivers, and the rivers call
     the creeks and springs, so this story, of a treasure hidden in a
     mine that is lost, has called many people to the Cañon of Gold.”


The Cañon of Gold was still in the shadow of the mountains the next
morning when the Pardners went to give their new neighbor his first
lesson in the work that was to occupy him for months to come.

Hugh Edwards greeted them without a trace of the hesitating fear that he
had shown during the first moments of their meeting, the day before. His
eyes now met theirs fairly, with no hint of questioning dread. It was as
if the restful peace and strengthening quiet of that retreat which was
hidden so far from the overcrowded highways of life had begun already to
effect, in the troubled spirit of this stranger, a magic healing.

“Well,” said Thad gruffly, “we’re here--where’s your pick an’ shovel an’
pan?”

When the younger man had produced those implements which were so new and
strange to him, Bob asked kindly if he had had a good night’s sleep, if
he found the cabin comfortable, and if he had fortified himself for the
day’s work with a proper breakfast.

Hugh Edwards laughed, and, with his face lifted to the mountain heights
that towered above them, squared his shoulders and drew a long deep
breath.

“I haven’t had such a sleep since I can remember. As for breakfast,
well, if I eat like this every day, I will exhaust my supplies before I
even learn to know gold when I see it. I feel as if I could move that
hill over there into the cañon.”

Bob chuckled.

“You’ll find you’ve got to move a lot of it, son, before you make enough
at this gold-huntin’ game to buy your grub.”

“That’s the trouble with prospectin’ in this here Cañada del Oro
country,” said Thad. “The harder you work the more you eat, and the more
you eat the harder you got to work. Come on, let’s get a-goin’.”

For several hours the old Pardners labored with their pupil beside the
creek, then, with hearty assurance of further help from time to time as
he made progress, they left him and went to their own little mine, some
five hundred yards down the cañon.

The afternoon was nearly gone when Edwards, who was kneeling over the
gravel and sand in his pan at the edge of the stream, looked up.

On a bowlder, not more than five steps from the amateur prospector, sat
an Indian.

With an exclamation, the white man sprang to his feet.

The Indian did not move. Dressed as he was in the wild fashion of his
fathers and with his primitive bow and arrows, he seemed more like some
sculptured bit of the past than a creature of living flesh.

Hugh Edwards, standing as one ready to run at the crack of the starter’s
pistol, swiftly surveyed the immediate vicinity. His face was white and
he was trembling with fear.

With grave interest the red man silently observed the perturbed
stranger. Then, as Edwards again turned his frightened eyes toward him,
the Indian raised his hand in the old-time peace sign and in a deep,
musical voice spoke the one word of the old-time greeting:

“How.”

Edwards broke into a short, nervous laugh.

“How-do-you-do--By George! but you gave me a start.”

Some small animal--a pack rat or a ground squirrel--made a rustling
sound in the bushes on the bank above, and with a low cry the frightened
man wheeled, and again started as if to escape.

The Indian, watching, saw the meaning in every move the stranger made,
and read every expression of his face.

With an effort Edwards controlled himself.

“Are you alone?” he asked. “I mean”--he caught himself up quickly--“that
is--have you no horse?”

“I am always alone,” the Indian answered calmly. Then, as if to put the
other more at ease, he continued in excellent English: “Night before
last, when the sun went down, I was up there on Samaniego Ridge,” he
pointed with singular grace. “There on that rock near the dead sahuaro,
and I saw you as you came up the old road into the cañon.”

Hugh Edwards again betrayed himself by the eagerness of his next
question:

“Did you see any one else?”

“There was no one on your trail,” returned the Indian.

At this the stranger seemed to realize suddenly that he was permitting
his fears to reveal too much, and, as one will, he sought to amend his
error with a half-laughing excuse.

“Really, you know, I didn’t suppose there was any one following me.” He
indicated his work with a gesture. “I am not exactly used to this sort
of life, you see, and--well--I confess the loneliness, the strangeness
of my surroundings, and all, have rather got on my nerves--quite
natural, I suppose.”

The Indian bowed assent.

As if determined to correct any impression he might have made by his
unguarded manner, Edwards abruptly dropped the subject, and with an air
of enthusiastic delight spoke of his surroundings, finishing with the
courteous question:

“You live in this neighborhood, do you?”

There was a quick gleam of savage light in the dark eyes that were fixed
with bold pride upon the questioning white man, and the Indian answered
more in the manner of his people:

“In the years that are past my fathers came to these mountains to hunt
and to make war like men. They come now with the squaws to gather
acorns, when the white man gives them permission. I live here, yes, as a
homeless dog lives in one of your cities. My name is Natachee.”

The deep, musical voice of the red man revealed such bitter feeling that
Hugh Edwards was moved to pity. And then, as he stood there in the
silence that had fallen upon them, a strange thing happened. It was as
if the spirit of the Indian had somehow touched the inner self of the
stranger and had quickened in him a kindred savage lusting for revenge
upon some enemy who had brought upon him, too, humiliation and shame and
suffering beyond expression. The white man’s hands were clenched, his
breast heaved with labored breathing, his face was black with passion,
his eyes were dreadful with the scowling light of anger and hate.

A faint smile came like a swift shadow over the face of the watching
Indian; then he spoke with deliberate meaning:

“And why have you come to the Cañada del Oro? Why should a man like you
wish to live here, in the Cañon of Gold?”

Hugh Edwards gained control of himself with an effort.

“I came to look for gold; as you see,” he said at last.

Again that faint smile like a quick shadow touched the face of the red
man.

And this time the other saw it. Looking straight into the eyes of the
Indian, he said coldly:

“And you, what do you do for a living?”

Natachee, returning look for look, answered simply:

“I live as my fathers lived.”

“I have heard about you, I think,” said Edwards.

The Indian’s deep voice was charged with scorn.

“Yes, the Lizard called at your camp--you would hear about every one
from the Lizard.”

“He told me that you were educated.”

Natachee answered sadly:

“It is true, I attended the white man’s school. What I learned there
made me return to the desert and the mountains to live as my fathers
lived; and to die as my people must die.”

When the white man, seemingly, could find no words with which to reply,
the Indian spoke again.

“If it is gold that brought you here to the Cañada del Oro, why do you
not search for the Lost Mine with the Iron Door?”

Hugh Edwards, remembering what the Lizard had said, smiled.

“And is there, really, such a mine?”

“There is a story of such a mine.”

“Do many people come to look for it?”

Natachee answered gravely and with that dignity so characteristic of a
red man, while his words, though spoken in English, were the words of an
Indian:

“Too many people come. As the ocean calls the water of the rivers, and
the rivers call the creeks and springs; so this story of a treasure
hidden in a mine that is lost has called many people to the Cañon of
Gold. For many years they have been coming--for many years they will
continue to come. The white people say they do not believe there ever
was such a mine and they laugh about it. They look for it just the same.
Even the Pardners, who dig for gold in their own little hole down there,
laugh, but I know that they, too, believe even as they laugh. That is
always the white man’s way--always he is searching for the thing which
he says does not exist, and at which he laughs.”

“But what about you?” asked Hugh Edwards. “Do you believe in this lost
mine?”

The Indian’s face was a bronze mask as he answered:

“Of what importance is an Indian’s belief to a white man? When the winds
heed the dead leaves they toss and scatter, when the fire heeds the dry
grass in its path, then will a white man heed the words of an Indian.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say it was as bad as that,” returned Edwards easily, and
as he spoke he went to bend over his pan again. “Mine or no mine,” he
continued, as he examined the sand and gravel he had been washing, “I
think I have some real gold here.”

When there was no answer he said:

“You must know gold when you see it. Will you look at this and tell me
what you think?”

Still there was no answer.

With the gold pan in his hand, the white man turned to face his visitor.
The Indian had disappeared.

In amazement, Hugh Edwards stood staring at the spot where the Indian
had been sitting but a moment before. Then, while his eyes searched the
vicinity for some movement in the brush, he listened for a sound. Not a
leaf or twig or blossom stirred--not a sound betrayed the way the red
man had gone.

With an odd feeling that the whole incident of the Indian’s visit was as
unreal as a dream, the man had again turned his attention to the
contents of his gold pan when a gay voice came from the top of the bank.

“Well, neighbor, have you struck it rich?”

Looking up, he saw Marta.

“I have struck something all right, or rather something struck me,” he
laughed, as she joined him beside the creek. Then he told her about the
Indian.

“Yes,” she said, “that was Natachee. He always comes and goes like that.
Everybody says he is harmless. He and Saint Jimmy are quite good
friends; but he gives me the creeps.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Ugh!
I always feel as if he were wishing that he could scalp every one of
us.”

“To tell the truth,” returned Edwards, “I feel a little that way
myself.”

That evening as Hugh Edwards sat with the Pardners and their girl on the
porch, he asked the old prospectors about the Mine with the Iron Door.

They laughed, as Natachee had said, but Edwards caught an odd note of
wistfulness in their merriment. Thad answered his question, with a brave
pretense of scorn:

“There’s lost mines all over Arizona, son. Better stick to your pick and
shovel if you want to eat reg’lar. You won’t pan out so mighty much,
mebby, but what you do get will be real.”

“But this here Mine with the Iron Door is different some ways from all
them others,” said Bob.

And again Edwards caught that wistful note in the old-timer’s voice.

“You mean that you believe there is such a mine?” he said.

“Holy Cats--No!” growled Thad. “We don’t believe in nothin’ ’til we got
it where we can cash it in.”

Bob was thoughtfully refilling his pipe. “They say it was made by the
old padres, away back, a hundred years before any of us prospectors ever
hit this country. I know one thing that you can see for yourself,
easy--there’s the ruins of a mighty old settlement or camp or somethin’
on the side of the mountain up above the Steam Pump Ranch. They say it
was there that the Papagos, what worked the mine for the priests, lived.
The Papagos and the padres always was friendly, you know. The padres
have got a big mission, San Xavier, down in the Papago country, right
now--built somethin’ like three hundred years ago, it was. I ain’t never
been able myself to jest figger their idea in fixin’ up the mine with
that iron door. Mebby it was on account of them only workin’ it by
spells, like when they was needin’ somethin’ extra for their mission or
for their church back home in Spain, where they all come from, and so
wanted to shut it up when they was gone away. Then one time, the story
goes, along come one of these here earthquakes, and tumbled a whole
blamed mountain down on top of the works. The old priests and their
Papago miners figgered it out that the landslide was an act of God--Him
bein’ displeased with the way they was runnin’ things er somethin’, an’
so they was scared ever even to try to dig her up again. An’ so you see,
after all these years, the trees and brush growed over the mountain
again and the old mine got to be plumb lost for certain sure.”

“An’ so far as we’re consarned,” added the other pardner emphatically,
“it’s goin’ to stay lost. This ain’t no country for a big mine nohow.
Mineralized all right, but look at the way she’s all shot to pieces;
busted forty ways for Sunday--ain’t nothin’ reg’lar nowhere, unless you
was to go down a thousand or two feet, mebby, and that ain’t no prospect
for a poor man, I’m a-tellin’ you. Find a little placer dirt, yes, and
you might strike a good pocket once in a lifetime or so, but that ain’t
to say real minin’. Take my advice, son, and don’t let this lost mine
get to workin’ on you or you’ll go hungry.”

“That’s all true enough, Pardner,” said Bob, “but you know how ’tis, you
can’t never tell--Gold is where you find it.”




CHAPTER X

SUMMER

     “Daddy,” says she, “Hugh has changed a lot since he come to us,
     ain’t he?”


The weeks of the spring passed. The gleaming snow fields vanished from
the dark pine heights of Mount Lemmon. The creek, which ran through the
Cañon of Gold with such boisterous strength that day when the stranger
came and Marta talked with Saint Jimmy under the old cedar on the
mountain side, crept lazily now, with scarce a murmur, pausing often to
rest in the shady quiet of an overhanging rock or to sleep, half hidden,
among the roots of a giant sycamore.

The Sonora pigeon, his mission accomplished, had long since ceased to
give his mating call. The nest in the mesquite thicket had been filled
and was empty again. The partridge was leading her half-grown covey far
from the mescal plant where they were born. The vermilion flycatcher was
too busy, with his exacting parental duties, even to think of indulging
in those fantastic exhibitions which ultimately had placed the burdens
of fatherhood upon his shoulders.

There was not a day of those passing months that the Pardners and their
girl did not in some way come in touch with their neighbor. Sometimes
Edwards would go to counsel with the two old prospectors as they worked
in their little mine. Again, they would go over to his place to advise
him, with their years of experience, in his small operations. Often he
would spend the evening with them on the porch in neighborly fashion, or
they would go to smoke with him before the door of his tiny cabin.
Occasionally, it was no more than a shout of greeting across the three
hundred or more yards that separated the two places; but always the
contact that had been established that day when the Lizard brought the
stranger to the Pardners’ door was maintained.

Hugh Edwards might have gone from the place where he labored to the
Pardners’ mine, along the creek under the high bank, without passing
their house at all, but he never did. That is, he never both went and
returned by the creek route. Either going or coming, he would always
climb out of the deep cut made by the stream to the level of the main
floor of the cañon where the house stood--except, of course, when Marta
had gone to the store at Oracle or to see Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton.

The girl was always included, too, in those evenings on the porch or
before his cabin door. Always, on her way to the store, she stopped to
see if she could bring anything for him. And often, with the freedom of
the rude environment she had known since she could remember, and with
the frank innocence of her boyish nature, Marta would run over to give
him a lesson in the arts of the kitchen; or, perhaps, to contribute
something of her own cooking--a pie or cake or pudding--that would be
quite beyond the range of his poor culinary skill. It was indeed all
very natural--perhaps, as Thad had said that first day, it was too
darned natural.

To the Pardners, Hugh Edwards was an object of continued speculative
interest, a subject of endless and somewhat violent arguments; and, it
must be added, a never-failing source of amusement and delight. The
genuineness and depth of this friendship for their young neighbor was
evidenced at last by their telling him the story of their partnership
daughter as they had told it to Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton. It was
not long after this mark of their confidence that the old prospectors
were led into a characteristic discussion of their observations.

Hugh had gone to them at their mine with a bit of quartz which he had
picked up in the bed of the creek. The consultation was over and the two
old prospectors were sitting in the shade of the tunnel opening watching
the younger man as he climbed up the steep bank toward the house. Old
Bob was grinning.

“He sure thought he had found somethin’ good this time, didn’t he? The
boy’s all right, don’t never show a sign of bein’ sore when his rich
rocks turn out to be jest nothin’ but rock--jest keeps right on tryin’.
Don’t seem to care a cuss how many blanks he draws.”

Thad chuckled:

“If hard work will get him anything, he’s sure due to strike it rich.
Hits it up from crack of day ’til plumb dark an’ acts like he hated even
to think of sleepin’ or eatin’.”

“It’s funny, too,” said Bob, “’cause you remember at first he didn’t
’pear to take no interest a-tall. Jest poked along in a come-day,
go-day, God-send-Sunday sort of a gait, as if all he wanted was to git
his powder back with what frijoles, bacon, and coffee he had to have.
He’s sure come alive, though. I wonder----“

Thad was rubbing his bald head with a slow, speculative movement.

“Had you took notice how he allus goes up to the house when he brings
them pieces of fool rock to us? My gal, she says to me the other
evenin’----“

“Your gal! Your gal!” Marta’s father shouted. “This here’s my week, and
you know it blamed well, you old love pirate, you. Can’t you never be
satisfied with your share? Have you got to be allus tryin’ to euchre me
out of my rights?”

“I apologize, Pardner, I forgot, I apologize plenty,” said Thad
hurriedly. “As I was meanin’ to say, that gal of yourn, she says to me,
‘Daddy’--last Saturday it was, so she had a right to call me
daddy--‘Daddy,’ says she, ‘Hugh has changed a lot since he come to us,
ain’t he?’”

“Well,” returned Bob, “what if my daughter did make such a remark,
it----“

“She was my daughter then,” interrupted Thad sternly.

“She’s mine right now,” retorted Bob with equal force. “What if she did
say it? I maintain it only goes to show what a smart, observin’ gal
she’s growed up to be.”

Thad grunted disgustedly.

“It’s almighty plain that she didn’t inherit none of her observin’
powers from you.”

Bob glared at him.

“Wal, what are you seein’ that I ain’t?” he demanded. “Somethin’ that’s
wrong, I’ll bet--By smoke! Thad, if you was to happen to get into Heaven
by any hook or crook so ever, you’d set yourself first off to
suspicionin’ them there angels of high gradin’ the gold they say the
streets up there is paved with.”

The other returned with withering contempt:

“You’ve said it! But don’t it signify nothin’ to you when your gal--when
any gal takes notice of how a feller is lookin’ different from what he
did when she first met up with him? Ain’t it got no meanin’ for you when
she says, ‘Since he come to us’? _Come to us--to us_--can’t you see
nothin’? If I was as dumb as you be, I’d set off a stick of powder under
myself to see if I couldn’t get some sort of, what I heard Doctor Jimmy
once call, a re-action.”

Bob laughed.

“I figger on gettin’ all the reactions I need from you, without wastin’
any powder. Hugh did come to us, didn’t he? Even if that measly Lizard
did fetch him far as the gate.”

“Oh, sure,” grumbled the other with fine sarcasm. “Hugh, he didn’t come
to this here Cañada del Oro--not a-tall--he jest come to _us_.”

Bob continued as if the other had not spoken:

“As far as his not bein’ the same as when he come, well, he
ain’t--anybody can see that. ’Tain’t only that he’s started in to
workin’, all at once, like he jest naterally _had_ to get rich. He’s
different in a lot of ways. Take his looks, for instance--he used to be
kind of white like--you remember, and now he’s tanned as black as any of
us old desert rats. He’s sturdier and heavier like, every way. Hard work
agrees with him, ’pears like.”

“’Tain’t only that,” said Thad.

“Sure--his hair ain’t so short no more.”

“There’s more than hair an’ bein’ tanned,” said Thad.

“Yep, there is,” agreed Bob. “Do you mind how, when he first come, he
acted sort of scared like--right at the very first, I mean.”

“That’s it,” returned Thad, “his eyes was like he was expectin’ one or
t’other, or both of us, to throw down a gun on him. An’ yet I sensed
somehow, after the first minute, that it wasn’t us he was afraid of. He
sure walks up to a man now, though, like he could jump down his throat
if he had to.”

“I’ll bet my pile he would, too, if he was called,” chuckled Bob. “And
have you noticed how easy he laughs, an’ the way he sings and whistles
over there when he’s fussin’ ’round his shack of a mornin’ or evenin’?”

“He sure seems contented enough,” said Thad, “an’ that’s another thing
I’ve noticed, too,” he added slowly. “The boy ain’t been out of the
cañon since he come.”

“Ain’t no reason for him to go,” said Bob. “We take out what little gold
he pans with ourn, don’t we? An’ it’s easy for Marta to buy his supplies
for him while she’s buyin’ for us. There ain’t nobody at Oracle that
he’d be wantin’ to see.”

“Mebby that’s it,” said Thad.

“Mebby what’s it?” demanded Bob.

“That there ain’t nobody at Oracle that he wants to see--or that he
don’t want to see him--whichever way you like to say it.”

“There you go again,” said Bob. “Can’t talk more’n a minute on any
subject without hintin’ that somethin’ is wrong. The boy is all right, I
tell you.”

“Well, Holy Cats! who said he wasn’t?” cried Thad. “I wouldn’t hold it
against him much if he never went to Oracle or nowhere else; jest stuck
in this here cañon ’til he died, hidin’ out in the brush somewhere every
time anybody strange showed up nearer than George Wheeler’s. You an’ me
has both suffered from the same sort of sickness more’n once, or I’m
a-losin’ my memory. You’re allus makin’ out that I’m thinkin’ evil when
I’m only jest tryin’ to look at things as they actually are. If I’d
intimated that the boy was a hoss-thief or a claim-jumper or somethin’
like that, you’d have reason to climb on to me, but I’m likin’ him an’
believin’ in him as much as ever you or anybody else ever dared to.”

Bob grinned.

“It’s funny how we’re all agreed on that, ain’t it? He is sure a likable
cuss. I was a-warnin’ him the other day about handlin’ his powder. ‘You
don’t want to forgit, son,’ says I, ‘that there’s enough in one of them
sticks to blow you so high that you’d think you was one of them heavenly
bodies up yonder.’ He laughed an’ says, says he, ‘That bein’ the case,
it would be mighty comfortin’ to know there was no one to dock me for
the time I was up in the air, wouldn’t it?’”

“Huh!” grunted Thad, “that’s an old one.”

“Sure it’s an old one,” retorted Bob, “but nobody can’t say it ain’t a
good one; and I’m here to maintain that you can tell a heap more about a
man by the jokes he laughs at than you can by the religions he claims to
believe in.”

“Yes,” retorted Thad grimly, “I’ve allus took notice, too, that them
that’s all the time seein’ evil in whatever anybody does is dead
immortal certain to be havin’ a lot of their own doin’s that need to be
kept in the dark. As for this game of lookin’ for some sort of
insinuations in everything a body says, it’s like a lookin’ glass--what
you see is mostly yourself. That’s what I’m meanin’.”

“Hugh is a good boy all right,” said Bob.

“He’s all of that and then some,” said Thad.

The truth of the matter is, Hugh Edwards had found, in the Cañada del
Oro, something more than the gold for which he worked so laboriously
through the long days, and which he had come to hoard with such miserly
care. In the Cañon of Gold, he had found more than rugged health; more
than a sanctuary from whatever it was that had driven him from the world
to which he belonged into the lonely seclusion of that wild country.
Into his loneliness had come a sweet companionship that had grown every
day more dear. In this new joy and gladness, bitterness and pain had
ceased to darken his hours with hatred and with useless and vengeful
longings. Crushed and beaten, humiliated and shamed, his every hour an
hour of dread, he had found inspiration and spirit to plan his life
anew. Out of his hopelessness, a glorious new hope had come. He had
learned again to dream; and he had gained strength to labor for his
dreams.

But he had not told Marta what it was that he had found. He could not
tell her yet. Before he could tell her, he must have gold. And he must
have, not merely an amount that would satisfy the bare necessities of
life--he must have much more than that. He was not so foolish as to feel
that he must be in a position to offer this girl the extravagant
luxuries of life. But his need was born of a dire necessity--a necessity
as vital as the need of food. Without gold, the realization of his dream
was an impossibility. His only hope of happiness was in the possibility
of his success in finding a quantity of the yellow metal for which,
through the centuries, so many men had labored, as he was laboring now,
in the Cañon del Oro. He could not explain to Marta--he could only
dream and hope and work, as those others before him had dreamed and
hoped and worked in the Cañon of Gold. And so, with a strength that was
like the strength of Saint Jimmy, this man was resolutely hiding the
love that had re-created him. Marta must not know--not now.

But Marta knew--knew and yet did not know. The girl, whose womanhood had
developed in the peculiarly sexless environment that had been hers since
she could remember, had formed no habit of self-analysis. She was wholly
inexperienced in those innocent but emotionally instructive friendships
which girls and young women normally have with boys and men of their own
age. Except for her fathers and Saint Jimmy, she had had no contact with
men. In her childlike ignorance she asked of herself no questions. She
gave no more thought to the meaning of her interest in Hugh Edwards than
a wild bird gives to its mating instinct. But as their friendship grew
and ripened, this girl of the desert and mountains knew that she was
happy as she had never been happy before. She felt a kinship with the
wild life about her that thrilled her with its poignant mystery. The
flowers had never before bloomed in such passionate profusion. The birds
had never voiced such melodies. The very winds were freighted with
perfumes that filled her with strange delight. The days, indeed, flew by
on wings of sunshine--the nights were haunted with shadowy promises as
vague and intangible as they were sweet.

Natachee, as the weeks passed, seemed to develop a strange interest in
the man who was so obviously from a world that is far indeed from the
haunts of the lonely red man. Frequently the Indian called at the little
cabin to spend an hour or more. Always he appeared suddenly, at the most
unexpected moments, as if he were a spirit materialized that instant
from an invisible world, and always he disappeared in the same startling
fashion.

Sometimes, when he was with Edwards and the Pardners, he would discuss
matters of general interest with the speech and manner of any well-bred
college man. Save for his savage costume, his dusky countenance, and a
certain touch of poetic feeling in his choice of words and figures of
speech, there would be nothing, on these occasions, to mark him as
different, in any way, from his white companions. But on other
occasions, when Natachee and Edwards were alone, the red man would, for
the moment, cast aside every mark of his training in the schools, and,
with the voice, words, and gestures peculiar to his race, express
thoughts and emotions that were purely Indian. Much of the time,
however, he would sit silently watching the white man at his work. Often
he would come and go without a word. He would sometimes appear, too,
when Marta and Edwards were together, and on these occasions, save for a
courteous greeting, he was rarely more than a silent observer.

The Lizard had at first endeavored to cultivate the stranger’s
friendship, but, receiving no encouragement, had soon limited his
attentions to a sullen “Howdy” when he passed on his way to or from
Oracle.

But Saint Jimmy had not yet met the man who was living next door to
Marta. Often the girl begged her teacher to go with her to call on the
new neighbor. Mother Burton frequently scolded him, gently, for his
discourtesy to the stranger. And Saint Jimmy promised many times that he
would call, but he invariably postponed the date of his visit. He would
set out on his social mission in all good faith, but invariably, when he
came within sight of the cabin so near to Marta’s home, he would stop
and, instead of going on, would spend the hours alone on the mountain
side looking out over the desert. Had Saint Jimmy been other than the
gentle spirit he was, he might have said that he heard quite enough
about Hugh Edwards from Marta without going to visit him.

Many times, too, Saint Jimmy thought to tell Marta the story her fathers
had intrusted to him, but for some reason he always found it as
difficult to talk to his pupil about the mystery of her early childhood
as he found it hard to call on this man in whom she was so interested.

Often he said to his mother that he would delay no longer--that he would
tell the girl the next time she came to see them; but each time he put
it off. The girl was always so radiantly happy, so overflowing with the
joy of life. Perhaps, Saint Jimmy told himself, perhaps, it might never
be necessary for her to know.

The dry season of the summer passed--the summer rains came; and again
the desert, the foothills and mountain sides were bright with blossoms.
It was during this “Little Spring,” as the Indians call this second
blossoming time of the year, that Saint Jimmy finally called on Hugh
Edwards.

And--it was the Lizard who brought it about.




CHAPTER XI

THE LIZARD

     “No,” said Doctor Burton, slowly, “I have heard nothing about Mr.
     Edwards. Nothing wrong, I mean.”


The Lizard was on his way to Oracle that day when he turned aside from
the more direct trail to take the path that led past the little white
house on the mountain side. Approaching the Burton home, he pulled his
horse down to a walk, and, as he rode slowly up the winding way, his
shifty eyes searched the vicinity on every side. It was not long before
he saw Doctor Burton, who was seated, with his back comfortably against
a rock in the shade of a Juniper tree, reading.

As the Lizard left the trail and rode toward him, Saint Jimmy glanced up
from his book. With a look of mild interest, he watched as the horse
with its rider climbed the steep side of the mountain.

When he had come quite near, the Lizard stopped, and slouching down in
the saddle looked at the man seated on the ground with a wide grin,
while the horse with a long breath of relief dropped his head and
settled himself sleepily, as if understanding from long experience that
his master would have no further use for him for some time to come.

“How do you do?” said Jimmy, smiling.

“’Bout as usual,” returned the horseman. “I’m eatin’ reg’lar. ’Lowed hit
war time I rode by to see how you was a makin’ hit these days. I see
ye’re still alive,” he laughed, in his loose-mouthed way.

“I am doing very well,” returned Saint Jimmy, wondering what the real
object of the fellow’s call might be.

“Yer maw’s well too, I reckon?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Been over t’ Oracle lately?”

“I was there yesterday.”

“Uh-huh! I was up t’ the store myself day before. Hear anythin’ new, did
ye?”

“Nothing startling,” smiled Saint Jimmy. “Your father and mother are
well, are they?”

“’Bout as usual. Ain’t seed George Wheeler lately, have ye--er any of
his folks?”

“George was at our house a few days ago,” returned Jimmy. “Stopped in a
few minutes on his way home from the upper ranch.”

“Uh-huh!--George say anything, did he?”

“No. Nothing in particular.”

The Lizard shifted his slouching weight in the saddle. “I met up with
one of George’s punchers t’other day. Bud Gordon, hit war. He says as
how th’ lions is a-gettin’ ’bout all of George’s mule colts up ’round
his place above.”

“So George was telling us. It’s too bad. You ranchers will be planning
another hunt soon, I suppose.”

The Lizard shook his head solemnly, then leered at Saint Jimmy with an
evil grin.

“Thar’s varmints in this here neighborhood what needs a-huntin’ a mighty
sight more’n lions an’ coyotes an’ sich.”

Jimmy waited.

“You say you ain’t heerd nothin’?” demanded the Lizard.

“About what?”

“’Bout that there new prospector, what’s located in th’ old cabin down
thar by th’ Pardners’ place.”

“No,” said Doctor Burton slowly. “I have heard nothing about Mr.
Edwards--nothing wrong, I mean.”

“Wal, if ye ain’t, hit’s ’cause ye ain’t been ’round much, er ’cause ye
ain’t listened very close. Mebby, though, folks would be kind o’
slow-like sayin’ anythin’ t’ you--seein’s how you’d likely be more
interested ’n anybody else.”

Saint Jimmy was not smiling now.

“I think you are mistaken about my interest,” he said curtly. “I have no
desire to listen to you or to any one else on the subject.”

“Oh, ye ain’t, heh?” the man on the horse returned with a sneer. “I
’lowed as how ye’d be mighty quick t’ listen, seein’ ’s how this new
feller’s cut you out with th’ gal, like he has.”

When Saint Jimmy did not speak, the Lizard continued with virtuous
indignation:

“Things was bad enough as they was, but now since this new feller’s
come, she’s a-carryin’ on past all reason. You kin find ’em t’gether at
his shack er down in th’ creek whar he’s a-pretendin’ t’ work, er out in
the brush somewhar ’most any time. An’ when she ain’t over t’ his place
er out with him somewhar, he’s dead certain t’ be at her house. I seed
them t’gether when I passed on my way up here. She’s too good t’ speak
to me, what’s been neighbor t’ her ever since she come into this
country, but she kin take up with this stranger quick enough.”

Doctor Burton was on his feet.

“That’s enough,” he said sharply. “You might as well go on your way now.
You have evidently said what you came to say.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” returned the Lizard with insolent superiority.
“There ain’t no use in yer tryin’ t’ be so high an’ mighty with me.
She’s throwd me down fer you often enough. Now that yer gettin’ th’ same
thing, ye ought t’ be a grain more friendly, ’pears t’ me. As fer this
other feller, he’ll sure get what’s a-comin’ t’ him, an’ so will she.”

Jimmy caught his breath.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean that folks ’re a-talkin’, an’ that they’ll likely do more than
talk this time. We’ve allus had our doubts about th’ gal--who wouldn’t
have--her bein’ raised by them two old mavericks like she war an’ bein’
named fer both an’ both claimin’ t’ be her daddy--an’ nobody knowin’ a
foreign thing ’bout who her real paw an’ maw was, er even whether she
ever had any. But folks has put up with her an’ you ’cause you was
supposed to’ be a-teachin’ her an’ cause yer Saint Jimmy.” He laughed.
“Saint Jimmy--mighty pretty, heh? But this new feller that’s got her
now--Edwards, he calls hisself--he ain’t pretendin’ nothin’. Him an’
her, they----“

Doctor Burton started forward, his eyes were blazing and his voice rang:

“Shut up--if you open your foul mouth again, I’ll drag you from that
horse and choke the dirty life out of you.”

The Lizard, amazed at the usually gentle-mannered Saint Jimmy,
straightened himself in the saddle and caught up the reins.

“Get out!” continued the man on the ground. “Go find some filthy-minded
scandalmonger like yourself to listen to your vile rot. I’ve had
enough.”

The Lizard snarled down at him:

“If you warn’t a poor lunger, I’d----“

But as Saint Jimmy reached for him, he touched his horse with the spur,
and the animal leaped away.

Twenty minutes later, Doctor Burton was on his way to the cabin in the
cañon.

Marta was at home, sitting on the porch with her sewing, when her
teacher rode down into the Cañon of Gold. She saw him as he turned aside
toward the neighboring cabin, and was on the ground in time to introduce
the two men.




CHAPTER XII

GHOSTS

     “The Cañon of Gold is haunted by the ghosts of these disappointed
     ones. I, Natachee, know these things because I am an Indian.”


Marta could not have explained, even to herself, why she was so anxious
to see Saint Jimmy and Hugh Edwards together. Certainly she made no
effort to find an explanation.

Through the years that he had been her teacher, Saint Jimmy had come to
personify, as it were, her spiritual or intellectual ideal.

Any why not, since it was Saint Jimmy who had helped her form her
spiritual and intellectual ideals? Their daily association, their
friendship, their love--for she did love Saint Jimmy--had all been
grounded and developed in an atmosphere of books and study that was
purely Platonic. In her teacher she had come to see embodied the
essential truths which he had taught. She had never for a moment thought
of Doctor Burton and herself as a man and a woman. He was simply Saint
Jimmy. She was his grateful pupil who loved him dearly because he was
Saint Jimmy.

But from the very first moment of their meeting Marta was conscious that
the appeal of Hugh Edwards’ personality was an appeal that to her was
new and strange--she was conscious that he had made an impression upon
her such as no man had ever before made. For that matter, she had never
before met such a man. As she had said so many times, he made her think
of Saint Jimmy and yet he was different. And because the experience was
so foreign to anything that she had ever known, she did not understand.

Because Hugh Edwards made her think so often of Saint Jimmy, and because
he was so different from Saint Jimmy, she was anxious to see the two men
together. Nor could the girl understand her teacher’s persistent failure
to call on their new neighbor. It was not at all like Saint Jimmy.
Nothing, perhaps, revealed quite so fully Marta’s lack of experience in
such things as her failure to understand why Saint Jimmy was so slow in
making the acquaintance of Hugh Edwards.

And now at last her wish to see these two men together was gratified.
The girl’s radiant face revealed her excitement. Her voice was jubilant,
her laughter rang out with delicious abandon. She was tingling with
animation and lively interest. Her two friends could no more resist the
impulse to laugh with her than one could refrain from smiling at the
glee of a winsome child.

As they shook hands she watched them, looking from one to the other with
an expression of such eager, anxious inquiry on her glowing countenance
that the men were just a little embarrassed.

“I really should have come to see you long ago,” said Saint Jimmy. “The
right sort of neighbors are not so plentiful in the Cañada del Oro that
we can afford to neglect them. I have heard so much about you, though,
that I feel as if you were really an old-timer whom I have known for
years.”

He looked smilingly at Marta.

Hugh Edwards did not appear at all displeased at the suggestion that the
girl had been talking about him.

“And I,” he returned with an equally significant glance at Marta, “have
heard so much about Doctor Burton that if there was ever a time when I
didn’t know him I have forgotten it.”

Marta was delighted. She could not mistake the fact that the two men, as
it sometimes happens, liked each other instantly. They seemed to know
and understand each other instinctively. The truth is that the men
themselves were just a little relieved to find this to be the fact.

Doctor Burton saw in Marta’s neighbor a man of more than ordinary
personality. That one of such character and education should choose to
live as Edwards was living, amid surroundings so foreign to the
environment in which he had so evidently been born and reared, and
should be content to occupy himself with such menial labor, was to Saint
Jimmy a puzzling thing. But Saint Jimmy was too broad in his
sympathies--too big in his understanding of life to be suspicious of
everything that puzzled him. It would, indeed, have been difficult for
any healthy-minded, clean-thinking person to be suspicious of Hugh
Edwards.

And Hugh Edwards recognized instantly in Marta’s teacher that quality
which led all men, except such poor characterless creatures as the
Lizard, to speak in his presence with instinctive gentleness and
deference.

When they were seated in the shade of the cabin and the two men, who
were to her so like and yet so unlike, were exchanging the usual small
talk with which all friendships, however close and enduring, commonly
begin, Marta watched and listened.

She was right, she thought proudly; they were alike, and yet they were
different. What was it? Too frank to dissemble, too untrained in such
things to deceive, too natural and innocent to hide her interest, she
compared, contrasted, analyzed. But while she was seeking an answer to
the thing that puzzled her, there was in her mind and heart not the
faintest shadow of a suggestion that she was choosing.

There was no occasion for choice. Indeed, she was not in reality
thinking--she was feeling.

And the men, while more apt in hiding their emotions, were scarcely less
conscious of the situation.

Suddenly Doctor Burton saw the girl’s face change. She was looking past
them as they sat facing her, toward the corner of the cabin. Her
expression of eager animation vanished and in its stead came a look of
almost fear. In the same instant, Jimmy was conscious that Edwards, too,
had noticed the girl’s change of countenance, and that a quick shadow
of dread and apprehension had fallen upon him. The two men turned
quickly.

Natachee was standing at the corner of the cabin.

For a long moment no one spoke. Then with a suggestion of a smile, as if
for some reason he was pleased with the situation, the Indian raised his
hand and uttered his customary word of greeting:

“How.”

They returned his salutation and he came forward to accept the chair
offered by Edwards. And though his dress, as usual, was that of a
primitive savage, his manner, at the moment, was in no way different
from the bearing of any white man with a background of educational and
social advantages. As he seated himself, he smiled again, as if finding
these three people together gave him a peculiar satisfaction.

Doctor Burton spoke with the easy familiarity of an old friend:

“Natachee, why on earth can’t you act more like a human being and less
like a disembodied spirit? You always come and go as silently as a
ghost.”

“I am as God made me,” the Indian returned lightly, then he added with
mocking deference to the three white people: “Except for a few
improvements added by your civilization. It is odd, is it not,” he
continued, “how the noble red man of your so highly civilized writers
and painters and uplifters of various sorts becomes so often an ignoble
vagabond once you have subjected him to those same civilizing
influences?”

“Certainly no one would accuse you of having acquired too much
civilization,” retorted Jimmy.

“I hope not, I am sure,” returned the Indian quietly. Then turning to
the others, he said graciously, “You will pardon us for this little
exchange of compliments. We are not really being rude to each other,
just friendly, that is all. With me, Saint Jimmy always drops his mask
of saintliness and becomes a savage, and I cease being a savage and
become, if not a saint, at least an imitator of the white man’s virtues.
It is the privilege of our friendship.”

“You are an old fraud,” declared Saint Jimmy.

“You flatter me,” returned Natachee. “My white teachers would be proud
of the honor you confer. They tried so hard, you know, to educate me.”

Edwards was amazed. He had never before heard Natachee talk in this
bantering vein. With him the Indian had always spoken gravely. He had
seldom smiled and had never laughed. The white man felt, too, that
underlying the playfulness of the Indian’s words and the seeming
pleasant humor of his mood, there was a savage interest--a cruel
certainty in the final outcome of some game in which he was taking a
grim part. He seemed to be playing as a cat plays with the victim of its
brutal and superior cunning.

While Edwards was thinking these things and watching the red man with
an odd feeling of dread which made him recall Marta’s saying that the
Indian always gave her the creeps, Natachee addressed the girl with
grave courtesy:

“It is really time that your teacher called upon your good neighbor,
isn’t it? I was beginning to fear that our Saint was harboring some
hidden grievance that provoked him to forget the social obligations of
his exalted position.”

Marta made no reply save a nervous laugh of embarrassment.

Doctor Burton flushed and said hurriedly:

“I was just asking Mr. Edwards, Natachee, when you materialized so
unexpectedly, how he liked living in the Cañada del Oro.”

“And I was about to reply,” said Edwards with enthusiasm, “that it is
the most beautiful, the most wonderfully satisfying place, I have ever
known.”

The Indian smiled, and his dark eyes glanced from Marta to Saint Jimmy,
as he said:

“Our cañon is being very good to Mr. Edwards, I think. It is giving him
health, gold enough for the necessities of life, and that peace which
passeth all understanding, with the possibility of acquiring great
wealth. It delights him with the beauty and the grandeur of nature. It
bestows upon him the blessings of a charming and delightful
companionship. And last, but not least, it affords him a sanctuary from
his enemies--if he has any. What more could any man ask of any place?”

Hugh Edwards moved uneasily.

The expression of Marta’s face was that of a wondering, half-frightened
child.

Saint Jimmy looked at the Indian intently, as if he, too, had caught the
feeling of a hidden, sinister meaning beneath the red man’s courteous
manner and half-jesting words.

“Natachee,” he said slowly, “I have often wondered--just what does the
Cañada del Oro mean to you?”

At the Doctor’s simple question or, perhaps, at the tone of his voice,
the countenance of the Indian suddenly became as cold and impassive as a
face of iron. Sitting there before them, clothed in the wild dress of
his savage ancestors, with his dark features framed in the jet-black
hair with that single drooping feather, he seemed, all at once, to have
thrown off every vestige of his contact with the schools of
civilization. When he had been speaking in the manner of a white man,
there had been something pathetic in his appearance. Only his native
dignity had saved him from being ridiculous. But now he was the living
spirit of the untamed deserts and mountains that on every side shut in
the Cañon of Gold. His dark eyes, filled with the brooding memories of a
vanishing race, turned slowly from face to face.

The three white people waited, with a strange feeling of uneasiness, for
him to speak.

“You say that I, Natachee, come and go as a ghost. Well, perhaps I am a
ghost. Why not? It would not be held beyond the belief of some of your
philosophers that the spirit of one who once, long ago, dwelt amid these
scenes, should return again in this body that you call me, Natachee the
Indian. The Cañada del Oro is peopled with ghosts. Those who, in the
years that are gone, lived here in the Cañon of Gold were as the
blossoms on the mountain sides in spring. In the summer months when
there was no rain, the blossoms disappeared. Then the rains came--the
‘Little Spring’ is here--and look, the flowers are everywhere.

“In this Cañon from the desert below to the pines above, there are holes
by the thousands where men have dug for gold. Climb the mountains and go
among the cliffs and crags and there are more and more of these holes
that were made by those who sought the yellow wealth. Walk the ridges
and make your way into the hidden ravines and gorges--everywhere you
will find them--these holes that men have dug in their search for
treasure. And every hole--every stroke of a pick--every shovel of
dirt--every pan of gravel--was a dream that did not come true; a hope
that was not fulfilled.

“The Cañon of Gold is haunted by the ghosts of these disappointed ones.
They are the shadows that move upon the mountain sides when the sun is
down and the timid stars creep forth in the lonely sky. They are the
lights that come and go in the cañon depths when the frightened moon
tries to hide in the pines of Mount Lemmon. They are the voices that we
hear in the nighttime, whispering, murmuring, moaning. Weary spirits
that cannot rest, troubled souls that find no peace--the disappointed
ones.

“And you who dare to dream and hope and labor here in the Cañon of Gold
to-day as those thousands who dared to dream and hope and labor here
before you--what are you but living ghosts among these restless spirits
of the dead? What are you to-day but shadows among the shades of
yesterday?

“You, Doctor Burton, are only a memory of dreams that did not come true.
You, Mr. Edwards, are but the ghost of the man you once planned to be.
You, Miss Hillgrove, are but the living embodiment of hopes that were
never fulfilled.

“As the shadow of an eagle passes, you came and you shall go. As the
trail of the eagle in the air so shall your dreams, your hopes and your
labor, be.

“I, Natachee, know these things. But because I am an Indian, I dream no
dreams--I have no hopes.” He arose and for a moment stood silent before
them. Then he said: “Natachee the Indian lives among the ghosts in the
Cañon of Gold.”

Before they could speak, he was gone; as silently as he had come he
disappeared around the corner of the cabin.

The two men and the girl sat as if under a spell and in the heart of
each there was a strange sadness and a shadow of fear.

       *       *       *       *       *

As Doctor Burton made his way homeward, he wished more than ever that
he had told Marta the things that the Pardners had related to him.

Ever since that day when she had first talked to him of the stranger,
Saint Jimmy had watched carefully the girl’s growing interest in her new
neighbor. And, while Marta herself had been wholly unconscious of the
true meaning of those emotions which so disturbed her, her teacher had
understood that the womanhood of his child pupil was beginning to assert
itself. He was too wise not to know also that the time was approaching
when Marta herself would understand.

Through all her girlhood she had been no more conscious of herself than
were the wild creatures that she knew so much better than she knew her
own humankind. She had lived and accepted life without a thought of the
part that, as a woman, she would some day be called upon to play in it.
Because of this freedom from self, she had not been deeply concerned
about the beginnings of her life. But with the arousing of those
instincts that were to her so strange would come inevitably a tremendous
quickening of her interest in herself. This new and vital interest in
herself would as surely force her to inquire with determined and fearful
persistency into her past. Who was she? Who were her parents? Under what
circumstances was she born?

Doctor Burton knew the fine pride and the sensitive nature of his pupil
too well not to realize that, when the time did come for the girl to ask
these questions, her happiness might well depend upon the answers.

The Lizard’s loose-mouthed gossip had brought him suddenly face to face
with a situation which was to his mind filled with real danger to
Marta’s future. His meeting with Hugh Edwards, his quick observation of
the comradeship that had developed between Marta and her neighbor, the
uneasy forebodings aroused by the Indian’s words, all combined now to
make him resolve that, at any cost to himself, he no longer would put
off telling the girl what she ought to know. If Hugh Edwards were not
the type of man he was, or if Marta were not the kind of girl she was,
it would not, perhaps, make so much difference. To-morrow Marta was
going to Oracle. She would stop at the little white house on the
mountain side on her way home. Saint Jimmy promised himself that he
would surely tell her then.




CHAPTER XIII

THE AWAKENING

     She understood now why the old prospectors had never talked to her
     of her parents or told her how she happened to be their partnership
     daughter.


Marta began that day with such buoyant happiness that even her fathers,
accustomed as they were to her habitually joyous nature, commented on
it.

The air was tingling with the fresh and vigorous sweetness of the early
morning. From the kitchen door, as she prepared breakfast, she saw the
mountain tops, golden in the first waves of the sunshine flood that a
few hours later would fill the sky from rim to rim and cover the earth
from horizon to horizon with its dazzling beauty. From some shelf on the
cañon wall, a cañon wren loosed a flood of joyous silvery music, gracing
his song with runs and flourishes, rich and vibrant, as if the very
spirit of the hour was in his melody, and while the cañon echoed and
reëchoed to the wondrous, ringing music of the tiny minstrel and the
girl, with happy eyes and smiling lips, listened, she saw a thin column
of smoke rise from that neighboring cabin and knew that her neighbor,
too, was beginning his day.

Like the puff of air that stirred the yellow blossom of the whispering
bells beside the creek, the thought came: Was he enjoying with her the
beauty and the sweetness of the morning? Was he sharing her happiness in
the new day? Then, as she watched, Hugh appeared in the cabin doorway
with a bucket in his hand. He was going for water to make his coffee.
She saw him pause and look toward her, and her face was radiant with
gladness as her voice rang out in merry greeting.

All that forenoon she went about her household work with a singing
heart. When the midday meal was over, her fathers saddled Nugget and, as
soon as she had washed the dishes, she set out for Oracle to purchase
some needed supplies.

When the girl stopped at his cabin, as she always did, to ask if she
could bring anything for him from the store, Edwards thought she had
never looked so radiantly beautiful. Glowing with the color of her
superb health and rich vitality--animated and eager with the fervor of
her joyous spirit--she was so alluring that the man was sorely tempted
to say to her those things that he had sternly forbidden himself even to
think. Lest his eyes betray the feeling he had sentenced himself to
suppress, he made pretext of giving some small attention to her horse’s
bridle, so that from the saddle she could not see his face.

As she rode on up the trail, he stood there watching her. When she had
passed from sight around a sharp angle of the cañon wall, he went slowly
to the place where through the long days he labored in his search for
the grains of yellow metal that had come to mean so much more to him
than mere daily bread.

Where the trail to the little white house on the hill branches off from
the main road to Oracle, Marta checked her horse. She wanted to go to
Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton. She wanted them to know and share her
happiness. She wanted to tell them how grateful she was for their
love--for all that they had done to save her from the ignorant,
undisciplined and dangerously impulsive creature she would have been but
for their patient teaching. In the fullness of her heart she told
herself that without Saint Jimmy and his mother she could never have
known the joy and gladness that had come to her. Without conscious
reasoning, she realized that it was their teaching, their love, their
understanding of her needs, that had fitted her for that time of her
awakening to the glad call of those deeper emotions that now moved her
young womanhood. But above Mount Lemmon and back of Rice Peak, huge
cumulus clouds were rolling up, and the girl knew that she must continue
on the more direct way if she would finish her errand at the store and
return before the storm that might come later in the day. On her way
back, she could stop at the Burtons, for then, if the storm came, it
would not so much matter.

Through narrow, rocky ravines and tree-shaded draws and sandy washes, up
the steep sides of mountain spurs and along the ridges, Nugget carried
her, out of the Cañon of Gold to the higher levels. And everywhere about
her as she rode, the mountain sides were bright with the blossoms of the
“Little Spring.” Sego lilies and sulphur flowers, wild buckwheat,
thistle poppies and bee plant, and, most exquisitely beautiful
of all, perhaps, the violet-tinted blue larkspur--_Espuela del
caballero_--Cavalier’s spur--the early Spaniards called it.

In George Wheeler’s pasture, not far from the corrals with the windmill
and the water tank, she met the sturdy, red-cheeked Wheeler boys and
Turquoise, one of the ranch dogs, playing Indian. From their ambush
behind a granite rock, they shot at her with their make-believe guns,
and charged with such savage fury and fierce war whoops that Nugget
danced in quick excitement. While she was laughing with them and they
were courteously opening the big gate for her, their father shouted a
genial greeting from the barn, and Mrs. Wheeler from the front porch
called a cheery invitation for her to stop awhile. But she answered that
it looked as if it were going to rain, and that she must be home in time
for supper, and rode on her way to the little mountain village.

In the wide space in front of the store, a group of saddle horses stood
with heads down and hanging bridle reins, waiting with sleepy patience
for their riders who were lounging on the high platform that, with steps
at either end, was built across the front of the building. As she drew
near, Marta recognized the Lizard. Then, as they watched her
approaching, she saw the Lizard say something to his companions, and
the company of idlers broke into loud laughter. The girl’s face flushed
with the uncomfortable feeling that she was the victim of the fellow’s
uncouth wit. Two of the men arose and stood a little apart from the
Lizard and his fellow loungers.

When the girl stopped her horse, a sudden hush fell over the group, and
as she dismounted she was conscious that every eye was fixed upon her.
With burning cheeks and every nerve in her body smarting with indignant
embarrassment, the girl went quickly up the steps and into the store. As
she passed them, the two cowboys who stood apart lifted their hats.

The girl was just inside the open doorway when the Lizard spoke again,
and again his companions roared with unclean mirth at the vulgar
jest--and this time Marta heard. She stopped as if some one had struck
her. Stunned with the shock, she stood hesitating, trembling, not
knowing what to do. For the first time in her life the girl was
frightened and ashamed.

Two women of the village who were buying groceries regarded her coldly
for a moment, then, turning their backs, whispered together. Timidly the
girl went to the farther end of the room where, to hide her emotions
until she could gain control of herself, she pretended an interest in
the contents of a show case.

       *       *       *       *       *

Before the laughter of the Lizard’s crowd had ceased, one of the cowboys
who had raised his hat walked up to them. With an expression of
unspeakable disgust and contempt upon his bronzed face, the rider looked
the Lizard up and down. Those who had laughed sat motionless and silent.
Slowly the man from Arkansas got to his feet.

The cowboy spoke in a low voice, as if not wishing his words to be heard
in the store.

“That’ll be about all from you--you stinkin’ son of a polecat. Never
mind yer gun,” he added sharply as the Lizard’s hand crept toward the
leg of his chaps. “Thar ain’t goin’ to be no trouble--not here and now.
I’m jest tellin’ you this time that such remarks are out of order a
heap, here in Arizona. They may be customary back where you come from,
but they won’t make you popular in this country--except, mebby, with
varmints of your own sort.”

He included the Lizard’s friends in his look of cool readiness.

Not a man moved. The cowboy carefully rolled a cigarette. Calmly he
lighted a match, and with the first deep inhalation of smoke, flipped
the burnt bit of wood at the Lizard. To the others he said:

“I notice you hombres are thinkin’ it over. You’d best keep right on
thinkin’. As for you----“

He again looked the man from Arkansas up and down with slow,
contemptuous eyes. Then, without another word, he deliberately turned
his back upon the Lizard and his friends and walked leisurely to his
horse.

As the cowboy and his companion rode away another chorus of laughter
came from the group of idlers and this time their merriment was caused,
not by anything the Lizard said, but was directed at the Lizard himself.

“Better not let Steve Brodie catch you again,” advised one.

“He’ll sure climb your frame if he does,” said another.

“Steve’s a-ridin’ fer the Three C now, ain’t he?” asked another,
seemingly anxious to change the subject.

“Uh-huh--Good man, Steve,” came from another.

With an oath, the Lizard slouched away to his horse and, mounting, rode
off in the direction of his home.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the store, Marta struggled desperately to regain at least a semblance
of composure.

The two women, when they had made their purchases, were in no haste to
go, and, under the pretext of taking advantage of their meeting for a
friendly chat, furtively watched the Pardners’ girl.

Marta, pretending to examine some dress goods displayed on a table
behind the stove, tried to hide herself. When the kindly clerk came to
wait on her she started and blushed. Trembling and confused, she could
not remember what it was that she had come to buy.

The clerk looked at her curiously. The women whispered again and
tittered.

At last, in desperation, the girl stammered that she did not want
anything--that she must go--that she would come in again before she
started home. With downcast eyes and burning cheeks, she fled.

As she passed the men on the platform and walked swiftly to her horse
she kept her eyes on the ground. She was so weak that she could scarcely
raise herself to the saddle.

But the men were not watching her now. With their faces turned away they
were, with one accord, interested in something that held their gaze in
another direction.

Perplexed and troubled, Marta made her way slowly back toward the cañon.
When Nugget, thinking quite likely of his supper, or perhaps observing
the dark storm clouds that now hid the mountain tops, would have broken
into a swifter pace, she pulled him down to a walk. Annoyed at the
unusual restraint, the little horse fretted, tossed his head, and tugged
at the bit. But she would not let him go. The girl wanted to think. She
felt that she _must_ think.

What was the meaning of that incident at the store? Why did those men
laugh in just that way when they first saw her? Why had they watched her
like that when she dismounted? Why had they looked at her so as she
passed them? Why did those women refuse to speak to her?--they knew her.
And what had they whispered after turning their backs upon her? She had
never before been conscious of anything like this. All her life she had
met rough men. She had not been unaccustomed to rude jests. She had
been, in the presence of men, like a young boy--unconscious of her sex.
The only close association with men she had ever known was with Saint
Jimmy and her fathers--until Edwards came. It could not be that these
people were any different to-day than on other days when she had gone to
the store. It must be that she herself was different.

“Yes,” she told herself at last, “she _was_ different.”

Just as she had found a deeper happiness than she had ever before known,
she had found a new consciousness--a new capacity for feeling--that had
made her blush when the men looked at her--that had made her ashamed
when she had heard the Lizard’s jest.

And then her mind went back to consider things which she had always
accepted as a matter of course, without question or particular
thought--as she had accepted her two fathers.

Why had she never been invited to the parties and dances at Oracle? Why
was it that, except for Mother Burton and good Mrs. Wheeler, she had no
women friends? Only men had attempted to be friendly with her, and they
had approached her only when she met them by chance, alone. She knew
them all--they all knew her. Suddenly she remembered how Saint Jimmy had
warned her once--long before Hugh Edwards had come to the Cañada del
Oro:

“You must be always very careful in your friendships, dear. Before you
permit an acquaintance with any man to develop into anything like
intimacy, you must know about his past. And by past, I mean
parentage--family--ancestors, as well as his own personal record. For
let me tell you that no one can escape these things. We are all what the
past has made us.”

The inevitable question came in a flash. What was her own past--her
parentage--her family? The conclusion came as quickly. She understood
now why the old prospectors had never talked to her of her own parents,
nor told her how she happened to be their partnership daughter. She
understood now the significance of her name, Hillgrove--her two fathers
had given her their names because she had no name of her own. Nothing
else could so clearly explain the attitude of the people which had been
so forcefully impressed upon her by her new consciousness.

Just as the young woman reached this point in her reasoning, her horse
stopped of his own volition. The girl had been so engrossed with her
thoughts that she had not seen the Lizard ride from behind a thick
screen of low cedars beside the trail and check his horse directly
across the path. She was not at all frightened when she looked up and
saw him waiting there, barring her way. Indeed, she regarded the fellow
with a new interest. It was as if one factor in her sad problem had
suddenly presented itself in a very definite and tangible form.

“Well,” she said at last, “what do _you_ want?”

The Lizard’s wide-mouthed, leering grin was not in the least reassuring.

“I knowed ye’d be a-comin’ along directly,” he said, “an’ ’lowed we’d
ride t’gether.”

“But what if I do not care to ride with you?” she returned curiously.

“Oh, that ain’t a-botherin’ me none. I ain’t noways thin-skinned,” he
returned, reining his horse aside from the trail to make room for her.
“Come along--ye might as well be sociable like. I know I can’t make much
of a-showin’ in eddication an’ fine school talk like you been used to,
but I’m jist as good as that lunger Saint Jimmy, er that there fancy
neighbor of yourn any day.”

Something in the fellow’s face, or some quality in his tone, brought the
blood to Marta’s cheeks.

“Thank you,” she said curtly, “but I prefer to ride alone.”

She lifted the bridle rein and Nugget started forward.

But the Lizard again pulled his mount across the trail and the man’s
ratlike face was twisted now, with sudden rage.

“Oh, you do, do you? Wall, let me tell you I’ve stood all I’m a-goin’ t’
stand on your account to-day.”

“Why, what do you mean?” she demanded, amazed.

“Never you mind what I mean, my lady. You jist listen to what I got t’
say. You’ve been a-playin’ th’ high an’ mighty with me long enough. D’
ye think I don’t know what you are? D’ ye think I don’t know all about
your carryin’ on. My Gawd a’mighty, hit’s a disgrace t’ any decent
neighborhood. A pretty one you are t’ be a-puttin’ on airs with me. Why,
you poor little fool, everybody knows what you are. Who’s yer father?
Who’s yer mother? Decent people has got decent folks, an’ you--you ain’t
got none. You ain’t even got a name of yer own--Hillgrove--two fathers.
Yer jist low-down trash an’ nobody that’s decent won’t have nothin’ t’
do with you. You prefer t’ ride alone, do you? All right, my fine lady,
you needn’t worry none, you’re goin’ t’ ride alone all right. I wouldn’t
be seen within a mile of you.”

With the last brutal word, he whirled his horse about and set off down
the trail as fast as the animal could run.

The girl, with her head bowed low over the saddlehorn, sat very still.
Her trembling fingers nervously twisted a lock of Nugget’s mane. Here
was confirmation, indeed, of all the doubts and fears to which she had
been led by her own painful thoughts. Here was the answer to all her
questions. Here at last was the explanation of those emotions which were
to her so new and strange.




CHAPTER XIV

THE STORM

     “There ain’t a God almighty thing that we can do ’til th’ mornin’.”


The old Pardners, when their day’s work was finished, climbed slowly
down from the mouth of the tunnel to the creek and, crossing the little
stream, climbed as slowly up to the level above. As his head and
shoulders came above the top of the steep bank, Thad, who was in the
lead, stopped.

“What’s the matter?” called Bob, who was close behind in the narrow path
with his head on a level with his pardner’s feet. “Gittin’ so old you
can’t make the grade without takin’ a rest, be you?”

“Whar’s the little pinto hoss?” demanded Thad in an injured tone, as if
the absence of Nugget was a personal grievance.

Bob climbed to his pardner’s side.

“Looks like Marta ain’t back yet.”

“She ought to be,” said Thad with an anxious eye on the threatening
clouds that now hung dark and heavy over the upper cañon.

“Stopped at Saint Jimmy’s, I reckon,” returned Bob, who was also
studying the angry sky. “Goin’ to storm some, ain’t it?”

“The gal sure can’t miss seein’ that,” returned the other, “an’ she
ought to know that when we do get a storm this time of the year, it’s
always a buster. I wish she was home.”

“Mebby she’s over to Edwards’,” said Bob hopefully.

They went on toward the house until they gained an unobstructed view of
the neighboring cabin and premises.

“Her hoss ain’t there neither,” said Thad, and again he looked up at the
dark, rolling clouds.

“Oh, she’ll be comin’ along in a minute or two,” offered Bob soothingly,
but his voice betrayed the anxiety his words were meant to hide.

Marta was no novice in the mountains, and the old Pardners knew that it
was not like their girl to ignore the near approach of a storm that
would in a few moments change the murmuring cañon creek into a wild,
roaring flood that no living horse could ford or swim. The trail, on its
course from her home to the Burtons, and to Oracle, crossed and
recrossed the creek many times, and should the storm break in the upper
cañon at the right moment, it would easily be possible for the girl to
be trapped at some point between the cañon walls and the bends of the
stream, and forced to spend at least the night there. More than this,
there was a place where the trail followed for some distance up the
narrow, sandy bed of the creek itself, between sheer cliffs. The
Pardners and Marta had more than once seen a rolling, plunging, raging
wall of water come thundering down the cañon from a storm above, with a
mad force that no power on earth could check or face, and with a
swiftness that no horse could outrun.

A few scattered drops of rain came pattering down. The Pardners without
another word hurried over to Edwards’ cabin.

The younger man, who was coming up the path from his work, greeted them
with a cheery, “Hello, neighbors--looks like we’re going to have a
shower.” Then as he came closer and saw their faces, his own countenance
changed and the old look of fear came into his eyes. “Why, what’s the
matter--what has happened?” He glanced quickly around, as if half
expecting to see some one else near-by.

“Marta ain’t come home,” said Thad.

And in the same instant Bob asked:

“Did she say anythin’ to you about bein’ specially late gettin’ back
to-day?”

Edwards drew a long breath of relief.

“No, she said nothing to me about her plans. But really, there is no
cause for worry, is there? She always stops at the Burtons’ with the
mail on her way back, you know. Perhaps she stayed longer than she
realized. Come on in out of the wet,” he added, as the pattering drops
of rain grew more plentiful. “She will be along presently, I am sure.”

With a glance at the fast-approaching storm, Thad said quickly:

“You don’t understand, son, we ain’t worried about the gal gettin’
wet.” And then in a few words he explained the grave possibilities of
the situation. “If she stops at Saint Jimmy’s, it’ll be all right, but
if she’s a-tryin’ to make it home and gets caught in the cañon----“

A gust of wind and a swirling dash of rain punctuated his words.

Old Bob started for the cañon trail. The others followed at his heels.
When they reached the narrow road a short distance away they halted for
a second.

“There’s fresh hoss tracks,” said Bob. “Somebody’s been ridin’ this way.
’Tain’t the pinto, though.”

“It’s the Lizard probably,” said Edwards. “I saw him pass on his way up
the cañon this forenoon.”

Half running, they hurried on. Before they reached the first turn in the
cañon, a fierce downpour drenched them to the skin. The falling flood of
water, driven by the blast that swept down from the mountain heights and
swirled around the cliffs and angles of the cañon walls, hissed and
roared with fury.

“There goes any chance of strikin’ her trail,” shouted Thad grimly.

The three men bent their heads and broke into a run.

At the beginning of that stretch of the trail which follows the bed of
the creek, Bob stopped abruptly.

“Look here,” he said to the others, “we’ve got to use some sense an’ go
at this thing right. If we all of us go ahead like this, we’ll all be
caught on t’other side of the creek when the rise gets here. If she
ain’t already in the cañon, she might be at Saint Jimmy’s, and she might
not. There’s a chance that the gal got started home from the store late
an’ was afraid to try comin’ this way, and so left Oracle by the Tucson
highway, figurin’ to cut across the hills somewheres to the old cañon
road an’ try crossin’ the creek lower down, like we do sometimes. It’ll
be plumb dark pretty quick an’ if she ain’t at Saint Jimmy’s, there
ought to two of us cover both trails--the one by Burtons’ an’ the one
that goes direct, an’ there ought to one of us stay on this side of the
creek in case she has made it the other way ’round. You won’t be much
good nohow, son,” he continued to Edwards, “if it comes to huntin’ the
hills out, ’cause you don’t know the country like we do. Suppose you go
back down to the lower crossin’ where the old road comes into the cañon,
you know--the way you come. If she don’t show up there in another hour
or two, you’ll know she didn’t go that way. There ain’t another thing
that you can do ’til daylight.”

“You men know best,” said Edwards and turned to go.

Thad caught the younger man by the arm.

“Wait.” For a second he paused, then spoke slowly: “It might not be a
bad idea while you’re down that way to drop in on the Lizard.”

“Come on,” cried Bob. “We sure got to run for it if we beat the rise
into this cut.”

The Pardners disappeared in the gray, swirling downpour. Edwards, with a
new fear in his heart, ran with all his strength down the cañon. But it
was not alone the thought of the coming flood that made his heart sink
with sickening dread--it was the memory of the Lizard’s face that day
when the fellow had first told him of Marta.

By the time he reached the cabin, Hugh heard the roaring thunder of the
flood. For an instant he paused. Had the two old prospectors gained the
higher ground beyond the stretch of trail in the creek bottom in time?
He turned as if to go back, then came the thought he could not now
retrace his steps beyond the first crossing. Whether the Pardners were
safe or were caught by the flood, it was too late now for human aid to
reach them.

Again he hurried on down the cañon. When he came to the place where he
had made his camp that first night in the Cañon of Gold, it was almost
dark, but over the spot where he had built his fire and spread his
blanket bed he could see a leaping, racing torrent that filled the
channel of the creek from bank to bank.

For nearly three hours he waited where the old road crossed the stream.
Convinced at last that Marta had not come that way, he went on down the
cañon, to the adobe house where the Lizard lived with his parents.

It was late now but there was a light in the window. The dogs filled the
night with their clamor as he approached and he stopped at the
dilapidated gate to shout:

“Hello--Hello!”

The door opened and a long lane of light cut through the darkness. The
Lizard’s voice followed the light:

“Hello yourself--what do you want--who be you?”

“I’m Edwards from up the cañon--call off your dogs, will you?”

From the gate, he could see the fellow in the doorway turn to consult
with some one inside. Then the Lizard called to the dogs and shouted:

“Come on in, neighbor. Little late fer you t’ be out, ain’t it?” he
added as Edwards approached, then: “Who you got with you?”

“There is no one with me,” returned Edwards as he paused in the light
before the door.

“Come in--yer welcome--come right in an’ set by the fire. Yer some wet,
I reckon.” As the Lizard spoke, he drew aside from the doorway and as
Edwards entered he saw the man place a rifle, which he had held, against
the wall.

An old woman sat beside the open fire smoking a cob pipe. The Lizard’s
father stood with his back to the wall at the far end of the room. They
greeted the visitor with a brief, “Howdy.” The Lizard offered a
broken-backed chair.

“Thank you,” said Edwards, “but I can’t stop to sit down. I came to ask
if you have seen Miss Hillgrove this afternoon.”

The Lizard and his father looked at each other. The old mother answered:

“What’s the matter, come up missin’, has she?”

Edwards told them in a few words.

The old woman spat in the fire and laughed.

“She’s most likely out in the brush somewheres with some no-account
feller like herself. Sarves her right if she gits caught by the creek.
Sich triflin’ hussies ought ter git drowned, I say--allus a-tryin’ t’
coax decent folks inter meanness. Best not waste yer time a-huntin’ sich
as her, young man.”

Edwards spoke sharply to the Lizard, who was grinning with satisfaction.

“Did you see Miss Hillgrove this afternoon, anywhere on the trail
between here and Oracle?”

The father answered in a voice shrill with vicious anger.

“Wal, an’ what ef he did--who be you to be a-comin’ here at this time o’
the night wantin’ t’ know ef my boy has or hain’t seed nobody?”

Hugh Edwards forced himself to speak calmly.

“I am asking a civil question which your son should be glad to answer.”
He again faced the Lizard. “Did you see her?”

An insolent, wide-mouthed grin was the Lizard’s only reply.

The old woman by the fire looked over her shoulder.

“Tell him, boy, tell him,” she croaked. “You ain’t got no call to be
skeered o’ sich as him.”

“Shucks, maw,” said the son. “I ain’t skeered o’ nothin’. I’m jist
a-havin’ a little fun, that’s all.”

He addressed Edwards:

“You bet yer life I seed her ’bout a mile this side o’ Wheeler’s pasture
it was. We shore had a nice little visit too. You an’ that thar Saint
Jimmy needn’t t’ think you’re th’ only ones.”

Before Edwards could speak, the old woman cried again:

“Tell him, son--why don’t ye tell him what ye said?”

The Lizard grinned.

“I shore told her enough. I’d been a-aimin’ t’ lay her out first chanct
I got. When I got through with her, you can bet she knowed more ’bout
herself than she’d ever knowed before. She shore knows now what she is
an’ what folks is a-thinkin’ ’bout her an’ her carryin’ on with that
there lunger an’ you.” His voice rose and his rat eyes glistened with
triumph. “She wouldn’t ride with me--Oh, no!--‘prefer t’ ride alone,’
says she. An’ I says, says I--when I’d finished a-tellin’ her what she
was an’ how she didn’t have no folks, ner name, ner nothin’--‘You
needn’t t’ worry none, there wouldn’t no decent man be seen within a
mile of you.’ An’ then I left her settin’ thar like she’d been whipped.”

Hugh Edwards moved a step nearer. It seemed impossible to him that any
man could do a thing so vile.

“Are you in earnest?” he asked. “Did you really say such things to Miss
Hillgrove?”

“I shore did,” returned the Lizard proudly. “I believe in lettin’ sech
people know whar they stand. She’s been a-playin’ th’ high an’ mighty
with me long enough.”

Then Edwards struck. With every ounce of his strength behind it, the
blow landed fair on the point of the Lizard’s chin. The loose mouth was
open at the instant, the slack jaw received the impact with no
resistance. The effect was terrific. The fellow’s head snapped back as
if his neck were broken--he fell limp and senseless halfway across the
room.

The old woman screeched to her man:

“Git him, Jole, git him!”

The Lizard’s father started forward and Edwards saw a knife.

A quick leap and Hugh caught up the rifle that the Lizard had placed
against the wall. Covering the man with the knife, the visitor said
coolly to the woman:

“Not to-night, madam. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he isn’t going to
get any one just now.”

He backed to the door and opened it with his face toward them and his
weapon ready.

“I will leave this gun at the gate,” he said. “If you are as wise as I
think you are, you will not leave this room until you are sure that I am
gone.”

He pulled the door shut as he backed across the threshold.

As Hugh Edwards made his way back up the cañon he reflected on what the
Lizard had said. One thing was certain, Marta had not started home by
the highway. But where was she now? At Saint Jimmy’s? Edwards doubted
that the girl would go to her friends after such an experience. Nor did
he believe that she would come directly home. He knew too well the
sensitive pride that was under all the frank boyishness of her nature.
No one was better fitted than he to appreciate the possible effects of
the Lizard’s cruelty.

Hugh Edwards knew the dreadful power of humiliation and shame. He knew
the burning, withering torture of unexpected and unjust public exposure
and of undeserved popular condemnation. He knew the horror and despair
of innocence subjected to the unspeakable cruelty of those evil-minded
gossips whose one hope is that the venomous news they spread may be
true, so that they will not be deprived of their vicious pleasure.
Better than any one, Hugh Edwards knew why Marta had not come home after
meeting the Lizard.

Like a hunted creature, wounded and spent, this man had come, as so many
had come before him, to the Cañada del Oro. He had come to the Cañon of
Gold to forget and to be forgotten--and he had found Marta. In the
frankness and fearlessness of her innocence, the girl had not known how
to keep her love from him. And seeing her love, hungering for that love
as a starving man hungers for food, as a soul in torment hungers for
peace, he had resolutely forbidden himself to speak the words that would
make her his.

When he had first come to the cañon, he had hoped only to find gold
enough to secure the bare necessities of life. And when out of their
daily companionship his love had come with such distracting power, he
had been the more miserable. But when he had heard from the Pardners
their story of how they found the girl, he had seen that there was no
reason save his own ill-starred past why, if he could win freedom from
that past, he might not claim her. That freedom--the freedom from the
thing that had driven him to hide in the Cañada del Oro--the freedom to
tell her his love, could only be had in the gold for which he toiled in
the sand and gravel and rocks beside the cañon creek.

As men, through all the years, have sought gold for love, so he had
worked in that place of broken hopes and vanished dreams. Every day when
she was with him he had sternly forced himself to wait. Every night he
had dreamed, in his lonely cabin, of the time when he should be free.
Every morning he had gone to his work at sunrise, buoyed with the hope
that before dark his pick and shovel would uncover a rich pocket of the
yellow metal. Every evening at sunset, as he climbed up the steep path
from the place of his labor, he had whispered to himself, “To-morrow.”
And now it had all come to this. With the knowledge of what the Lizard
had done, and the full realization of all that might so easily result,
the man’s control of himself was broken. He was beside himself with
anxiety. If Marta was not safe with her friends in the little white
house on the mountain side, where was she? Had the Pardners found her?
Was she wandering half insane with shame and despair through the storm
and darkness? Had she been caught in that plunging flood that was
roaring with such wild fury down the cañon? Was her beautiful body, that
had been so vivid, so radiant with life, at that moment being crushed
and torn by the grinding bowlders and jagged walls of rocks? Perhaps the
Pardners, too, had been met by that rushing wall of water before they
could escape from the trap into which he had seen them disappear. As
these thoughts crowded upon him, the man broke into a run. There must be
something--something that he could do. The sense of his utter
uselessness was maddening.

At the gate to Marta’s home he stopped, and in the agony of his fears he
shouted her name. Again and again he called, until the loneliness of the
dark house and the sullen grinding, crashing roar of the creek drove him
on. At the first crossing above his own cabin, the stream barred his
way. Again he cried with all his might, “Marta! Marta! Thad! Bob!” But
the sound of his voice was lost, beaten down, overwhelmed by the wild
tumult of the plunging torrent. At last, weary and spent with his
efforts, and realizing dully the foolishness of such a useless waste of
his strength, he returned to Marta’s home.

He did not stop at his own cabin. Something seemed to lead him on to
that house to which he had drifted months before, as a broken and
battered ship drifts into a safe harbor from the storm that has left it
nearly a wreck. Since the first hour of his coming, that home had been
his refuge. Every morning from his own cabin door he had looked for the
chimney smoke as a wretched castaway watches for a signal of hope and
cheer. Every night in his loneliness he had looked for the lights as one
lost in the desert looks at a guiding star. He could not bear the
thought now of those dark windows and empty rooms.

       *       *       *       *       *

As the Pardners were climbing out of the creek bed where the trail
leaves the cañon for the higher levels they heard the thundering roar of
the coming flood.

“Thank God, we know that won’t git her anyhow,” gasped old Thad. “That
there run jest about winded me.”

Bob, panting heavily, managed a sickly grin.

“Like as not we’ll find her safe an’ dry eatin’ supper at Saint Jimmy’s,
an’ ready to laugh at us for a pair of old fools gettin’ ourselves so
worked up over nothin’.”

“Here’s hopin’,” returned the other. “But it’s bound to be a bad night
for the boy back there. Pity there won’t be no way to get word to him
’til mornin’.”

They could not go very fast, and it was pitch dark before they reached
the little white house. But at the sight of the lighted windows they
hurried as best they could, stumbling over the loose rocks and slipping
in the mud up the narrow, zigzag trail.

In less than ten minutes from the time Saint Jimmy opened the door in
answer to their knock they were again starting out into the night. And
this time they separated. Thad returned to the point where the path that
leads by the Burton place branches off from the main trail to make his
way from there on, while Bob continued on the path from the white house
which joins again the main trail at Wheeler’s pasture gate.

Another hour, and the storm was past. Through the ragged clouds, the
stars peered timidly. But every ravine and draw and wash was a channel
for a roaring freshet.

A little way from Wheeler’s corral, in the pasture, Thad met his pardner
coming back. He was riding and leading another horse saddled.

“She didn’t start home on the highway,” said Bob.

“They seen her at Wheeler’s, did they?”

“Yes, George saw her himself when she was goin’, an’ when she come back.
George, he’s saddled up an’ gone on into Oracle to pass the word. He’ll
be out with a bunch of riders at sun-up.”

Thad climbed stiffly into the saddle and for some minutes the two old
prospectors sat on their horses without speaking, while over their heads
the windtorn clouds swept past as if hurrying to some meeting place
beyond the distant hills.

“There ain’t a God almighty thing that we can do ’til th’ mornin’,” said
Bob at last.

Slowly and in silence they rode back to the little white house on the
mountain side, there to wait with Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton for the
coming of the day.

The two old prospectors, who had spent the greater part of their lives
amid scenes of hardship and danger and whose years had been years of
disappointment and failure in their vain search for treasure of gold,
had given themselves without reserve to the child that chance had so
strangely placed in their keeping. Lacking the home love and the
fatherhood that spurs the millions of toiling men to their tasks, and
glorifies the burden of their labors, Bob and Thad had spent themselves
in their love for their partnership daughter. But, because these men had
been schooled in silence by the deserts and the mountains, they made no
outward show of their anxiety and fear. They did not cry out in wild
protest and vain regrets and idle conjectures. They did not walk the
floor or wring their hands. They sat motionless in stolid
silence--waiting.

Mother Burton, in the seclusion of her own room, found relief for her
overwrought nerves in quiet tears and carried the burden of her anxious,
aching mother-heart to the God of motherhood.

Saint Jimmy paced the floor with slow, measured steps, pausing now and
then to look from the window into the night or to stand in the open
doorway with his face lifted to the wind-swept sky, listening--listening
for a voice in the darkness.

In Marta’s home beside the roaring creek--alone amid the dear intimate
things of her daily life--the man who had been made to live again in her
love waited--waited for the eternity of the night to lift from the Cañon
of Gold.




CHAPTER XV

MARTA’S FLIGHT

     She did not know where she was going. She did not care. What did it
     matter where she went?


The victim of the Lizard’s unspeakable brutality was as one dazed by an
unexpected blow. Coming, as the fellow’s vicious attack did, so close
upon her own uneasy thoughts, it seemed to answer all her troubled
questions and she accepted every cruel word as the truth.

Nugget, wondering, perhaps, why his rider remained so motionless when
the other horse and rider had gone on, essayed an inquiring step or two
forward. When his mistress gave no heed to his movement, he tossed his
head and pulled at the slack bridle rein invitingly. “What’s the
matter?” he seemed to say. “Come on--why don’t we go?” But still she
gave no sign of life. Slowly, as if still wondering and a bit doubtful,
the little horse moved on down the familiar way toward home. At the
pasture gate, the pinto, without a sign from his rider, placed himself
so that she could reach the latch. Mechanically she opened the gate and
the knowing animal helped her close it from the other side.

But when Nugget would have taken the trail which goes past that white
house on the mountain side by which they always went home from Oracle,
Marta reined him back with a sudden start. She could not go that way
now. She remembered with a wave of hot shame how she had proposed to
Saint Jimmy that they be married and run away somewhere--and how she had
pictured their home. She understood now why he had laughed in that
queer, strained way. It would have seemed funny to any man like Doctor
Burton, with such a family name and birth and breeding, that a girl like
her--born as she was without a name, with no right to be born at all,
even--would dare to suggest such a thing.

Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton had been good to her--yes, they would be
good to any one like that. They had pitied her and had wanted to help
her. But of course Saint Jimmy had laughed when she asked him to marry
her. She would love those dear friends always, but at the thought of
ever meeting them again she shook with terror. She felt that she would
die with shame.

As she rode on, the girl gave no heed to the heavy storm clouds that
were massing above the upper cañon. At any other time she would have
seen and would have pushed her horse to his utmost speed in a race with
the coming flood. But now she was too occupied to think of the
approaching danger. In fact, her thoughts of Saint Jimmy and Mother
Burton were only momentary. When her horse had turned into the direct
trail to the cañon, she was fighting to keep herself from thinking of
the man who lived in the cabin so close to her home. She was telling
herself over and over that she must not think of him. And yet she did,
and her thoughts burned like coals of fire.

Marta knew now with terrifying certainty that she loved Hugh
Edwards--not, indeed, with the love that she gave Saint Jimmy and,
which, until Edwards came, was the only kind of love she knew, but with
that other love--the love that a woman gives to the one man she chooses
above all others to be her man for all time to come, in the lives of her
children--their children. Her happiness that morning had been born of
the certainty that the man she had chosen wanted her. He had never
spoken a word of love to her but she knew. In a thousand ways he had
told her. His very efforts to keep from speaking had made her more sure
in her happiness.

She had not understood. She had not even realized why she had wanted him
to speak. She had only felt instinctively that she belonged to him, and
that he wanted her, but that for some reason he hesitated. But now the
Lizard had explained it all. She knew now that her love for Edwards was
an evil love. She knew that her instinctive answer to him was a wicked
thing. She knew that the emotions stirred by him were vile. She
understood at last why he had not spoken the words she hungered to hear.
He would never speak. He was like Saint Jimmy. The mother of Hugh
Edwards’ sons must not be a nameless nobody--a creature of shameful
birth and evil desires--a woman upon whom decent women turn their backs
and at whom men like the Lizard laughed in scorn.

The girl was almost in sight of Hugh’s cabin when, with sudden energy,
she sat erect and again checked her horse. Around that next turn in the
cañon wall he would be waiting. She could not go on. A barrier,
invisible but mightier than any mountain wall, had fallen across her
way. She was separated--shut out. She was unclean. She must not go near
the one she loved.

Wheeling her horse, the girl rode away up the cañon, straight toward the
storm that was gathering in the mountains above. She did not know where
she was going. She did not care. What did it matter where she went? She
would go anywhere but there where he was waiting.

Blindly she rode into that stretch of the trail that lies in the channel
of the creek between the sheer walls. But when, at the end of the
hall-like passage, her horse would have followed the trail out of the
cañon, she pulled him back. The pinto fretted and tried to turn once
more toward home, but she forced him to leave the trail and go on up the
creek.

For some time the little horse labored through the sand and gravel or
picked his way, as a mountain horse will, around bowlders and over the
rocks. So that when those first few drops of rain came pattering down,
the girl was already a considerable distance up the cañon. Again Nugget
protested, and again she forced him on.

She had reached a point beyond where the cañon turns back toward the
south when the storm broke and the rain came swirling down the mountain
in torrents. The fierce downpour, driven by the heavy gusts of wind,
forced her to bend low in the saddle. On every side the dense gray
curtain enveloped her. Her horse broke in open rebellion. Nugget knew,
if his rider had forgotten, the grave danger of their position in the
creek bed, and he proceeded to take such action as would at least insure
their immediate safety.

There were a few preliminary bounds, then a scrambling rush with flying
gravel and rolling rocks and tearing brush, with plunging leaps and
straining heavy lifts, during which the girl rider could do little more
than cling to the saddle. When her horse finally consented again to the
control of the bit, and stood trembling, with heaving flanks, on the
steep side of the mountain, Marta had lost all sense of direction. In
the terrific downpour, she could not see a hundred yards. Wrapped in the
gray folds of that wind-blown curtain, every detail of the landscape
save the near-by bushes was obscured beyond recognition. No familiar
peak or sky-line could be seen.

Suddenly Nugget threw up his head--his ears pointed inquiringly. The
girl, too, looked and listened. Then above the hiss of the rain on the
rocks and bushes, and the roar of the wind along the mountain slope, she
heard the thunder of the coming flood. Nearer and louder came the sound
until presently that rolling crest of the flood, freighted with
crushing, grinding bowlders, swept past and the gray depths of the cañon
below her horse’s feet were filled with the wild uproar.

Marta knew that to go back the way she had come was impossible. She
realized dully that Nugget had saved both her life and his. It did not
much matter, but she was glad that the little horse was not down there
in the bed of the creek. They might as well go on somewhere, she
thought; perhaps Nugget could find some place where he at least would be
more comfortable.

Giving her horse the signal to start, she dropped the bridle rein on his
neck, thus permitting him to choose his own course. With sure-footed
care, the little horse picked his way along the mountain side, always
climbing a little higher until finally they reached what the girl knew
must be the top of a ridge or spur of the main range. Following this
ridge, which led always upward but at an easy grade, the pinto moved
with greater freedom. They came at last to a low gap through which
Nugget went without a sign of hesitation, and again he was making his
way along the steep side of the mountain.

It was nearly dark when the girl became aware that her horse was
following a faint trail. She did not know when they had come into this
trail. It was so faintly marked that it could scarcely be distinguished,
if at all. But Nugget seemed perfectly content and confident, and
because there was no reason for doing otherwise, and because she did
not care, she let the horse go the way he had chosen.

The night came swiftly down. The gray curtain deepened to black. The
girl did not even try to guess where she was except that she knew she
must be somewhere on one of the mountain slopes that form the upper part
of Cañada del Oro--the wildest and most remote section of the Santa
Catalina range.

She was exhausted with the stress of her emotions and numb with her
rain-soaked clothing in the cool air of the altitude to which they had
climbed. As the light failed and the black wall of the night closed in
about her, she swayed, half fainting, in her saddle. Nugget stopped and
the girl slipped to the ground, clinging to the saddle for support.
Peering into the gloom she could barely distinguish the mass of a
mountain cedar a little farther on.

Wearily she stumbled and crept forward until she could crawl beneath the
low sodden branches.

The girl felt herself sinking into a thick darkness that was not the
darkness of the night.




CHAPTER XVI

NATACHEE

     “My gifts are only the gifts of an Indian, Miss Hillgrove; I see
     with the eyes of a red man, that is all.”


As consciousness returned to Marta, her first sensation was that of
physical comfort. She thought that she was in her own bed at home,
awakening from a dream. Slowly she opened her eyes. Instead of her own
familiar room she saw the rough, unhewn rafters, the log walls, and the
rude furnishings of an apartment that was strange.

Wonderingly, without moving, she looked at the unfamiliar details--at
the fireplace of uncut rocks with a generous fire blazing on the
hearth--the lighted lamp on the table--the rough board cupboard in the
far corner--the cooking utensils hanging beside the fireplace--and at
the skins of mountain lion and lynx and fox and wolf and bear that hung
upon the walls. It all seemed real enough, and yet she felt that it must
be a part of her dream. She would awaken presently she thought--how
curious--how real it was.

She put a hand and arm out from under the covers and touched, not the
familiar blankets of her own bed, but a fur robe. The effect was as if
she had come in contact with an electric wire. In the same instant she
saw the sleeve of her jacket, and realized that she was not in her own
bed at all, but was lying fully dressed on a rude couch--that her
clothing was still wet from a storm that was not a dream storm, and that
everything else was as real.

But where was she? Who had brought her to this strange place? Fully
awake now, the girl made a more careful survey of the room, and this
time saw hanging on a peg in the log wall near the fireplace a bow with
a sheaf of arrows, and on the floor beneath a pair of moccasins.

“Natachee!”

With a shudder, as if from a sudden chill, Marta threw back the fur robe
and sat up. She was not frightened. It is doubtful if Marta had ever in
her life known real fear. But there was something about the Indian that
always, as she had expressed it, “gave her the creeps.”

Swiftly her mind reviewed the hours that had passed since she left her
home to go to Oracle. Her good-by to Edwards, her happiness as she rode
over the familiar trail, her meeting with the Wheeler children and their
parents, the incident at the store, her troubled thoughts as she started
homeward, and then, the crushing shame--the horror of the things that
the Lizard had made known to her. Of her actual movements after the
Lizard left her, she remembered almost nothing clearly. That part of her
experience remained to her still as a dream. But that one dominant
necessity which had driven her into the storm and the night; _that_
stood clear in all its naked and hideous reality. She could not, with
the burning certainty of her shame, she could not see Saint Jimmy nor
Hugh Edwards again.

Rising, she went to the fireplace and stood before the blaze to dry her
still damp clothing. She was calmer now. The wild uncontrolled storm of
her emotions had passed. With her physical exhaustion had come a sort of
relief from her emotional strain. She could think now. As she stood
looking down into the fire she told herself, with a degree of calmness,
that she _must_ think. She must plan--she must decide--what should she
do?

She was standing there, with her eyes fixed on the blazing logs in the
fireplace, when she became aware that she was not alone. As clearly as
if she had seen it, she felt a presence in the room. She turned to look
over her shoulder. Natachee stood just inside the closed door of the
cabin. He had entered, opening and closing the heavy door without a
sound.

As she whirled to face him, the Indian bowed with grave courtesy.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Hillgrove, I did not mean to startle you but I
thought you might be sleeping.”

There was nothing either in the Indian’s face or in his manner to alarm
her. Save for his savage dress he might have been any well-bred college
or university man. Nor did the girl in the least fear him. She only felt
that curious creepy feeling that she always experienced in his
presence.

As if to put her more at ease, Natachee went to bring a rustic chair
from the other end of the room, saying in a matter-of-fact tone:

“I have been out taking care of your little horse. He will be
comfortable for the night, I think.” He placed the chair before the fire
and drew back. “Won’t you be seated? You can dry your boots so much
better.”

Marta sat down and, holding her wet feet to the blaze, looked again into
the ruddy flames. The Indian, standing at the other side of the room,
waited, motionless as a graven image, for her to speak.

“Thank you,” she said at last.

At her words, or rather at her air of utter hopelessness, a flash of
cruel satisfaction gleamed for an instant in the somber eyes of the red
man.

But Marta did not see.

“It is nothing,” said the Indian and his deep voice gave no hint of the
fire that had, for the instant, blazed in his dark impassive
countenance. “It is a pleasure to be of any service.” And then with a
smile which again the girl did not see, he added, “I was caught in the
storm myself.”

Without raising her eyes Marta said wearily, as if it did not in the
least matter:

“It was you who found me and brought me here?”

“I was on my way home from the cañon below when I chanced to catch a
glimpse of you and your horse against the sky. Naturally I was curious
to know who it was that rode in these unfrequented mountains through
such a storm and at such an hour. I managed to follow you and so found
your horse. Then I found you and brought you here.”

When the girl was silent he continued:

“My poor little hut is not much, I know, but it is a shelter at least,
and I assure you you are as welcome as if it were the home of your
dreams.”

At this the girl threw up her head with a start. Staring at him with
wide questioning eyes she said wonderingly:

“The home of my dreams? What do you know of my dreams?”

Natachee bowed his head.

“I beg your pardon. My choice of words was unfortunate but
unintentional, I assure you. And yet,” he finished with quiet dignity,
“it would be difficult for any one to imagine a woman like you being
without a dream home.”

With a shudder the girl turned back to the fire.

Again that gleam of savage pleasure flashed in the eyes of the Indian.

“But I am forgetting,” he said, “you have had nothing to eat since noon
and it is now past midnight. This is a poor sort of hospitality indeed.”

As he spoke he went to the cupboard and began putting dishes and food on
the table.

The girl watched him curiously--his every movement was so sure, so
complete and positive. There was no show of haste and yet every motion
was as quick as the movements of a deer. He gave the impression of
tremendous strength and energy, yet his touch was as light as the hand
of a child, and his step as noiseless as the step of that great cat, the
cougar. Indeed, as he went to and fro between the table, the cupboard
and the fireplace, Marta thought of a mountain lion.

“And how do you know that I have had nothing to eat since noon?” she
asked presently.

Without looking up from the venison steak he was preparing, he answered:

“You went to Oracle early in the afternoon--you did not stop at the
Wheeler ranch on your way back--you did not go to Saint Jimmy’s--you did
not go to Hugh Edwards’--you did not go home.”

The girl’s cheeks flushed as she persisted:

“But how do you know? Have you some supernatural gift that enables you
to see what people are doing no matter where you are?”

Natachee laughed.

“My gifts are only the gifts of an Indian, Miss Hillgrove; I see with
the eyes of a red man, that is all.”

The girl looked again into the fire.

“I wish you did have the gift of second sight,” she said, speaking half
to herself.

The Indian flashed a look at her that would have startled her had she
seen it.

“Why?”

“Because,” she answered slowly, “because then perhaps you could tell me
something that I want very much to know.”

The Indian, who was behind her, smiled.

“Dinner is served,” he said.

“Really I--I don’t think I can eat a thing,” she faltered, looking up at
him.

“I know,” he returned gravely, “but perhaps if you try--“ he placed a
chair for her and stood expectantly.

And Marta felt herself compelled to obey his unspoken will. Perhaps
because of the strange effect of the Indian’s personality upon her, or
perhaps because she sought relief from the pain of thoughts which she
could not express, the girl encouraged the red man to talk of his life
in the mountains. And Natachee, as if courteously willing to serve her
purpose, followed her conversational leadings with no mention of her own
life in the Cañada del Oro or of her friends. Over their simple meal, of
which Marta managed to partake because she felt she must, he told her of
his hunting experiences and drew from his seemingly inexhaustible store
of desert and mountain lore many strange and interesting things. Nor was
there, in anything that he said or in his way of speaking, the slightest
hint of his Indian nature.

As they left the table, and Marta resumed her seat before the fire, she
said:

“But I do not understand how a man educated as you are can be satisfied
to live like--“ she hesitated.

“Like an Indian?” he finished for her.

“Well, yes.”

There was a long moment of silence before he replied with a marked
change in his voice:

“I live like an Indian because I am an Indian. Because if I would I
could not be anything else.”

As he spoke he came to the other side of the fireplace and seated
himself on the floor and the act had for the girl the odd effect of a
deliberate renunciation of the civilization which she, in her chair,
seemed for the moment to personify. It was as if in answering her
question he had cast off the habit of his white man’s schooling; had
thrown aside mask and cloak and placed before her his true self. As he
sat there, in the picturesque garb of his savage fathers, with the ruddy
light of the fire playing on his bronze, impassive countenance and
glinting in the somber depths of his steady eyes, the young white woman
looking down upon him could detect no trace of the white man’s training.

“And yet,” she said, “this cabin--this room--does not look like any
Indian’s home that I ever saw.”

He answered with the native imagery of a red man:

“The cougar that has been taught to jump through a hoop at the crack of
his trainer’s whip is still a cougar. The eagle in a white man’s cage
never acquires the spirit of a dove.”

“But I should think that with your education you would live among your
people and teach them.”

Gazing steadfastly into the fire he answered grimly:

“And what would you have me teach my people?”

“Why, teach them what you have learned--teach them how to live.”

The Indian looked at her, and the girl saw something in his countenance
that made her feel, all at once, very weak and helpless. She was
embarrassed as if caught in some petty meanness. In her confusion she
began to stammer an apology but the red man raised his hand.

“You, a white woman, shall hear an Indian. I, Natachee, will speak.

“It would be easier to number the drops of water that fell in the storm
to-night than to tell the years of these mountains that look down upon
the Cañada del Oro and the desert beyond. They have seen the ages pass
as the cloud shadows that race across their foothills when the spring
winds blow. Before the beginnings of what you white people call history
they had watched many races of men rise to the fullness of their
strength and pride, and fall as the flowers of the thistle poppies fall
in the desert dust. In the time appointed the Indians came.

“From the peaks of these mountains Natachee the Indian can see far. From
the place where the sun rises in the east, to the mountains behind which
he goes down in the west, and from the farthest range that lies like a
soft blue shadow in the north, to that line in the south where the
desert and the sky become one, this land was the homeland of my Indian
fathers. Since the God of all life placed us here it has been our home.
What has the Indian to-day?

“Was there a place where the tall pines grew and the winter snows
lingered long into the dry season to feed the streams where the wild
creatures drink--‘I want those trees, they are mine,’ said the white
man. And he cut them down and sold them for gold, and the naked
mountains held no snows to feed the creeks; and the meadows that God
made became barren wastes--lifeless. Was there a spring of water--‘It is
mine,’ cried the white man, and he built a fence around it and made a
law to punish any thirsty creature that might dare to drink without
paying him. In this homeland of my fathers the wild life was as the
grass on the mesas. The Indian took what he needed. It was here for all.
The white man saw the antelopes in the foothills, the deer on the
mountain slopes, the bear in the cañon, the sheep among the peaks, and
he shouted: ‘They are mine--all mine.’ And every man in his white
madness, for fear some brother would destroy one more wild thing than he
himself could count among his spoils, killed and killed and killed; and
only the buzzards profited by the slaughter. But I, Natachee, an Indian,
here in this homeland of my fathers, because I dared to kill the deer
from which we had our meat this evening, am a violator of the white
man’s laws, and subject to the white man’s punishment.

“You tell me that I should teach my people how to live? By that you mean
that I should teach them the ways of the white people? Is it the duty of
one who has been robbed of all that was his to accept the thief as his
schoolmaster and spiritual guide? Would you say that one who had been
tricked and cheated out of his birthright must adopt the principles and
customs of the trickster? Could you expect one who had been humiliated
and shamed and broken to set up the author of his degradation as his
ideal and pattern?

“The schools of the white people taught me nothing that would cause the
white people to permit me ever to make a place for myself among them as
their equal. No education can ever, in the eyes of the white man, make a
white man of an Indian. All kinds of animals are educated for the circus
ring, and the show bench, and the vaudeville stage. If they prove clever
enough you applaud them. You reward them for amusing you. You educate
the Indian. If he be clever enough you give him a place in your social
circus so long as he amuses you. But do you permit him to become one of
you in your homes, your professions, your law-making, your
business--no--he is no more one of you than the performing bear is one
of you. Do you think that I, Natachee, do not know these things? Do you
think my people do not know that, when one of their boys is put in the
white man’s schools, he grows up to be something that is neither a white
man nor an Indian? It is because they do know, that they look upon me,
Natachee, as an outcast of the tribe. Would the outcast, without place
or people in the world, teach others the things that made him an
outcast?

“The only thing that an Indian can teach an Indian is to die. In the day
of their strength and pride my fathers in these mountains saw the smoke
from the first camp fire made by a white man in the Cañada del Oro. It
was a signal smoke--but no Indian then could read its meaning. We know
now that it meant the time had come when the Indians, too, must go into
the shadows, even as the many races that had passed before them. But my
people shall not be unavenged--as the red man is going, the white man
too shall go.

“The strength of the Indian was the red strength of the mountains and
deserts and forests and streams. The Indian is dying because the white
man stole his red strength and turned it into a white man’s strength,
which is yellow gold. But the white man’s yellow strength is his
weakness. In the golden flower of his greatness are the seeds of his
decay. For gold, your people destroy the forests--tear down the
mountains--dry up or poison the streams--lay waste the grass lands and
bring death to all life. For gold they would rob, degrade, enslave and
kill every race that is not of white blood. For gold they rob, degrade,
enslave and kill their own white brothers. Even the natural mating love
of their men and women they have made into a thing to buy and sell for
gold. In this lust for gold their children are begotten, and born to
live for gold, and of gold to perish. The very diseases that rot the
white man’s bones, wither his flesh, dim his eyes and turn his blood to
water are diseases which he buys with his gold. And the only heaven
that his religious teachers can conceive for his celestial happiness is
a place where he may forever wear a crown of gold, make music upon a
harp of gold, and walk upon streets of gold. It was this gold, which is
both the white man’s strength and his weakness, that brought your race
like a pestilence upon my people. By this same gold for which the Indian
peoples have been destroyed shall the Indians be revenged; for by this
gold shall the destroyers themselves, in their turn, be destroyed.

“There is nothing left for the Indian but to die. I, Natachee, have
spoken.”

At his closing words Marta Hillgrove caught her breath sharply.

“Nothing left but to die? And you--have you never dreamed of--“ she
could not speak her thought.

Again that quick light of savage pleasure flashed across the dark face
of the red man.

“An Indian has no right to dream of love,” he answered, “for love to an
Indian means children. Why should an Indian wish to have children?”

When the girl hid her face in her hands, he continued with cruel
purpose:

“Is it so hard for Marta Hillgrove to understand that there might be
circumstances under which it would become a duty to deny one’s self the
happiness of loving? If it is there are two men who could, I am sure,
make it clear to her.”

For some time the Indian sat watching the white woman as one of his
ancestors might have watched an enemy undergoing the agony of torture.
Then rising he said:

“Come, it is time that you were taking your rest. You have nearly
reached the limit of your endurance. You will sleep there on the couch.
I shall be within call. In the morning I will take you home.”

He threw more wood upon the fire and turned to leave the room.

“You are very kind,” said the girl, “but I cannot go home.”

Natachee faced her and she saw the savage triumph that for the moment
burned through the mask of stolid indifference which he habitually wore.

“Kind?” he said with cruel insolence. “Kind! And why should I, Natachee,
an Indian, be kind to you, a white woman? Make no mistake, Miss
Hillgrove, if I do not to-night treat you as my fathers treated the
women of their enemies, it is not because I am kind. It is only because
it will afford me a more enduring and keener pleasure to return you to
your friends down there in the Cañon of Gold.”

The girl, cowering in her chair, heard no sound when the Indian left the
room.

When morning came and Natachee again appeared he was his usual stolid,
courteous self. But Marta knew now what fires of bitter hatred smoldered
beneath the red man’s calm exterior. He made no reference to her
statement that she could not go home, nor did the girl dare to repeat
what she had said. She felt that she was powerless to do other than
resign herself to the will of the Indian who seemed to find a cruel
satisfaction in returning her to Saint Jimmy and Hugh Edwards.

When they had eaten breakfast, Natachee brought her horse.

The cañon creek below was still a roaring torrent, impossible to cross,
but the red man led her by ways known only to himself around the head of
the cañon and so at last to Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton.

For the next two or three weeks Marta avoided Hugh Edwards. She saw him
frequently at a distance, and when he came to spend an evening hour on
the porch, but she did not go to his cabin alone and always managed that
her fathers were present when she talked with him in her own home.
Edwards accepted the situation understandingly, and said no word, but
worked harder than ever. Neither did she spend much time with Saint
Jimmy, though she went nearly every day to see Mother Burton. The girl
was very gentle with the two old prospectors and with tender
thoughtfulness sought to make them feel that she was their partnership
girl exactly as she had been ever since she could remember. But she
would not go to Oracle, so either Bob or Thad was forced to go to the
store whenever it was necessary for some one to bring supplies.

Doctor Burton blamed himself bitterly for the whole affair, but the
Pardners insisted that the fault was theirs.

“You can see yourself, sir,” said Bob, “that if we’d raised the gal up
knowin’ all the time what she had to know some day, it couldn’t never
a-struck her like this.”

And Thad added:

“The God almighty truth is that me an’ my pardner was jest too darned
anxious to shirk what was plain enough our duty, and so shifted the
responsibility on to you. It was a mean, low-down trick an’ no way fair
to you, an’ you jest got to see it that way. We know how you feel about
not tellin’ her ’cause we’re feelin’ that way a heap ourselves, but it
ain’t addin’ none to our comfort to have you tryin’ to shoulder the
blame what belongs to us.”

The two old men were so miserable that Saint Jimmy’s sympathy for them
lessened somewhat his own suffering, and the three agreed that the only
thing they could do was, as Bob said, “to blame everybody in general and
nobody in perticler and make it up to the girl the best they could.”

Then came that eventful day when Sheriff Jim Burks and two of his
deputies rode into the Cañada del Oro.




CHAPTER XVII

THE SHERIFF’S VISIT

     “Come to think of it, it’s generally a healthy proposition not to
     know too much about your neighbors--the ones that you like, I
     mean.”


The Pardners were coming from their mine to the house for the midday
meal when the officers stopped at the gate.

“Howdy, Jim?” called Bob with the cheerful grin he kept for his friends.
“Which one of us are you wantin’ now?”

The sheriff laughed as he shook hands with the two old prospectors.

“If you’ll give our horses a feed, I’ll let you both off this time.”

“How about yourselves?” asked Thad. “Would you fight if we was to try to
force you to eat a bite?”

“I’ll say we would not,” returned one of the deputies, swinging from his
saddle.

“I’m that holler that I’d ring if anybody was to kick me,” drawled the
other.

“I’ll have to hear what the boss says before I commit myself,” said the
sheriff. “How about it, Marta?” he called to the girl who stood in the
doorway. “Are you backing the offer of these two daddies of yours?”

“You know I am, Mr. Burks,” she returned heartily. “You are always
welcome here. I’ll be ready for you in a few minutes.”

While they waited Marta’s call to dinner, the men exchanged news of
general interest and talked together as old friends will. And Marta, in
the kitchen, could hear through the open window every word as clearly as
if she had been sitting with them.

Presently the sheriff made known his mission in the Cañon of Gold. “You
haven’t got any strangers in the neighborhood, have you?” he asked
casually.

“Nope,” said Bob.

“Nary a stranger,” echoed Thad.

“That is,” amended Bob, “not that we have seen or heard of. This here
Cañada del Oro is a pretty big piece of country, Jim, an’ mighty rough,
as you know, an’ Thad an’ me we stick kinda close to our diggin’.”

“Natachee been ’round lately?”

“Oh, he drops in once in a while, same as always,” returned Bob. “He was
here yesterday.”

“Natachee would sure know if there was any one around,” mused the
officer. “There is nothing stirring in these mountains that Indian don’t
see. I’m looking for a convict who escaped from the Florence
penitentiary,” he continued. “The last trace we had of him he was headed
this way. He came into Tucson and managed to get a sort of an outfit
together and struck out for somewhere in this general direction.”

At the officer’s words old Thad rubbed his bald head meditatively. Bob
bent over to pick up a bit of rock which he proceeded to examine with
minute care. The girl in the kitchen caught at the table for support
and, faint and trembling, with white face and horror-stricken eyes,
stared through the open door toward that neighboring cabin.

Then she heard Thad say:

“We sure ain’t seen nothin’ like a convict in these parts, Jim. When did
he make his break?”

“Two weeks ago,” answered the sheriff.

The color returned to the girl’s face and her trembling limbs became
steady. But as she turned again toward the stove where the meal for her
guests was cooking, she glanced through the open window and stood as if
turned to stone.

Natachee was moving with noiseless step toward the group of men outside.

Then she heard Bob’s laugh.

“Talkin’ about the devil, sheriff, suppose you take a look behind you.”

While the officers and the Pardners were exchanging greetings with the
Indian, Marta, going to the door, summoned the hungry men. They trooped
into the house and Natachee, declining the invitation to join them at
the table on the plea that he had eaten an early dinner, seated himself
just inside the open doorway to continue his part in the general
conversation.

When the sheriff had explained his mission to the Indian, Natachee, with
his eyes fixed on Marta’s face, confirmed the Pardners’ opinion that no
stranger had recently come into the Cañon of Gold.

“That’s good enough for me,” said the sheriff. And then to his men:
“We’ll swing over into the Tortollita country this afternoon. No use
wasting any more time here.”

“We can just about make it over to Dale’s ranch by dark,” returned one
of the deputies.

“We ain’t due to strike no such meal as this at Dale’s,” said the other
officer mournfully, “Dale’s batchin’.”

And with one accord they all smilingly expressed their appreciation of
Marta’s cooking and acknowledged their gratitude for her hospitality,
while the girl happily assured them again of the welcome that always
awaited them in her home.

For some time following this the hard-riding officers were too busy
demonstrating their approval of the dinner to engage in conversation.
Natachee waited.

At last the Indian spoke casually:

“You do not always succeed in finding these escaped convicts, do you,
sheriff? This is a big stretch of country to cover and it’s not so very
far to the Mexican line. I should think a man would have a fairly good
chance.”

“They have more than a fair chance,” returned the sheriff. “But still we
get most of them. A man must have food and water, you know. If our man
knows this sort of country, we can nearly always figure out about what
he will do.”

He put down his knife and fork and sat back in his chair with the
genial air of one who is at peace with the world.

“It’s mostly the strangers that drift in from other parts that we never
get,” added one of the deputies. “You can’t tell what they’ll do, nohow.
Generally they lose themselves and never show up.”

Rolling a cigarette the sheriff, in a reminiscent mood, continued:

“That’s right. There was one that got away from San Quentin over in
California about six months ago, and we lost him clean. They traced him
as far as Phœnix and notified me to be on the lookout, because it was
reasonably sure that he was heading south, but that’s the last anybody
ever heard of him. He may show up yet--if he’s not dead. We always try
to keep them in mind, you know.”

The Indian, watching Marta, saw the terror that came into her eyes at
the sheriff’s words. Quietly she drew away from the group and slipped
into the adjoining room where she stood just inside the half-open door
listening.

The eyes of the Pardners were fixed upon the officer with intense
interest.

Natachee smiled.

“What did this man look like?”

The sheriff answered:

“The description sent to me says he is a man of about twenty-two or
three, tall, rather slender, gray eyes, brown hair, clean shaven,
good-looking, well educated, well appearing, likable sort of a chap.
Haven’t seen him, have you, Natachee?”

“I might run across him somewhere, some day,” returned the Indian.

There was a sound in the adjoining room and the sheriff, who was sitting
with his back toward the door, turned his head inquiringly.

Old Bob spoke quickly:

“What was he in for, Jim?”

And Thad asked in the same breath:

“A killin’, was it?”

The officer gave his attention again to his hosts.

From where he sat the Indian, through the open kitchen door, saw Marta
running toward the neighboring cabin.

The sheriff was answering the old prospectors:

“He was sent up for wrecking a big investment company in Los Angeles.
You remember--the papers were full of the affair at the time.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Hugh Edwards did not know that his neighbors were entertaining visitors.
He was at work in the creek bed when the sheriff arrived and when he
went up to his cabin for his noontime lunch the Pardners and their
guests were on the far side of the house, so that he could not see them.
He had returned to his work and was energetically wielding his pick when
he heard Marta’s hurried step on the bank above. The girl came running
and sliding down the steep path.

At sight of Marta’s face, Edwards dropped his pick and ran to her.

“Marta dear, what is the matter? What has happened?”

In his alarm for her he forgot himself for the moment, and would have
taken her in his arms, but her first hurried words brought him back with
a shock.

“The sheriff--“ she cried in a voice that trembled with fear and
excitement.

Hugh Edwards stood as if stunned by a sudden blow, staring at her dully,
unable to speak.

“Don’t you understand?” she said sharply. “The sheriff is here--why
don’t you speak? Why don’t you say something?” She caught him by the arm
and shook him. “The sheriff is here, I tell you. He is looking for a man
who escaped from prison.”

Hugh Edwards drew a long shuddering breath and the girl saw him, in
obedience to his first impulse, turn and start as if to run. Then, as
suddenly he checked himself, and stood looking about in fearful
indecision, not knowing which way to go. Another moment and he had
regained control of himself.

Facing her with a steadiness which revealed the real strength of his
character he said coolly:

“This is interesting, I’ll admit, but don’t you think perhaps you are a
little overexcited?” he smiled reassuringly. “Suppose you tell me more.”

Calmed by his strength the girl answered:

“Sheriff Burks and two of his men are searching for a convict who
escaped from the Florence penitentiary two weeks ago. They stopped at
our house to inquire if we had seen any strangers in the cañon recently,
and we asked them to stay for dinner of course. Natachee happened
in as he always does when any one from outside comes to the
cañon--and--and--while they were all eating and talking I slipped out
the front door and ran over here to tell you.”

Edwards laughed.

“A convict escaped from Florence two weeks ago. Well, he certainly is
not in the Cañada del Oro or Natachee would know.”

The girl looked at him pleadingly.

“I--I--am afraid Natachee does know.” She shuddered. “He--it
would be just like him to bring the sheriff and his men here.
Please--please--won’t you go? For my sake, won’t you?”

At this Edwards looked at her searchingly.

“Go where?” he said at last. “What do you think the Indian knows? Why
should I go anywhere?”

“You--you do not understand,” the girl faltered. “You must hide
somewhere, quick--Please, Hugh, they may come any minute.”

Again Edwards looked about as if, while prompted to yield to her
entreaty, he was still undecided as to the best course to pursue.

“But surely you know that I did not escape from Florence two weeks ago,”
he said slowly.

“I know--I know,” she cried, “but there was another.”

“Another?”

“Yes--a man who escaped from San Quentin six months ago. They followed
him as far as Phœnix. He was coming this way. He was twenty-two or
twenty-three years old--tall--slender--gray eyes--brown hair--well
educated--Oh, Hugh--Hugh--don’t stand there looking at me like that! You
must do something--you must go--quick--somewhere--anywhere where these
men won’t see you.”

With a low cry of horror and despair the man leaped away, running like a
startled deer up the creek. But before he had gone a hundred feet he
stopped as suddenly as he had started and faced back toward the girl,
holding out his arms in an unmistakable gesture of love and longing.

But Marta did not see. She had dropped to the ground, where she crouched
with her face buried in her hands.

Still holding out his arms the man went slowly toward her. Then again he
stopped, to stand for a moment irresolute, as one fighting with all the
strength of his will against himself. And then once more he faced the
other way, and stooping low, with head down, ran as if in fear for his
life.

       *       *       *       *       *

When Marta had recovered a little of her self-control she realized that
she must not be seen near Edwards’ cabin by the officers, who by this
time must have finished their dinner. Hurriedly she stole away down the
creek, thinking that if she was seen coming up the path that led from
the Pardners’ mine to the house no one would question as to where she
had been.

When she had gained the top of the bank she saw her fathers just
outside the kitchen door deep in a heated argument. There was no one
else in sight. Catching her breath sharply, the girl hurried on until
she could gain an unobstructed view of the neighboring cabin. There was
no one there. With a sob of relief she almost ran the remaining distance
to the Pardners, who were by now watching her expectantly, as if
wondering what she would do or say.

“Where are they? Have they gone?” she cried as she came up to them.

The two men looked at each other questioningly.

“Go ahead, you old fool, she’s your gal, ain’t she?” said Bob. “What’s
the use in your standin’ there lookin’ at me like that, I ain’t done
nothin’.”

“Holy Cats!” ejaculated Thad. “Can’t a man even look at you without you
goin’ mad? I ain’t a-worryin’ none about what you’ve done or about what
anybody’s done, if it comes to that. It’s what you’re likely to do
that’s got me layin’ awake nights.”

He turned to the girl and in a very different tone said:

“Sure they’re gone. Jim figgered that if the man they wanted was in the
Cañada del Oro, Natachee would a-seen him and so, as long as the Indian
hadn’t seen nobody strange in these parts, they’ve pulled out for the
Tortollitas. Jim said to tell you good-by an’ that they’d sure enjoyed
your cookin’.”

To the utter amazement of the two old prospectors their partnership girl
burst into a joyous ringing laugh, and throwing her arms around each
leathery wrinkled old neck in turn she kissed them and ran into the
house.

Bob looked at Thad--Thad looked at Bob--together they looked toward the
kitchen door through which their girl had disappeared.

“Holy Cats!” murmured Thad softly, as he rubbed his bald head. “Now what
in seven states of blessedness do you make of that?”

“She must know,” said Bob. “She must a-heard what Jim said--she ain’t a
plumb fool if she is your gal.” He shook his head. “I give it up. Listen
to that, will you?”

Marta, busy with her after-dinner kitchen work, was singing.

“One thing is certain sure,” said Thad softly, “whatever trouble the boy
may have got himself into, it’s a dead immortal cinch that he ain’t in
no way different now from what he was before Jim Burks happened to eat
dinner with us, an’ that blamed Indian began askin’ fool questions about
what ain’t none of his business.”

“That’s fair enough,” returned Bob. “We didn’t never take to Hugh for
what some judge, that we never saw or heard tell of, said he was or
wasn’t. We threw in with him for what he is. An’ if we’re such a pair of
boneheads as to be livin’ with him like we have all this time without
findin’ out more about what he really is than any judge that ever sat
on a bench--well--we ought to be sentenced ourselves, that’s what I’m
sayin’.”

Thad rubbed his bald head.

“At that,” he said mournfully, “it wouldn’t be the first time by
several, that we’d ought to a-been sentenced, would it? If young Edwards
was to go to pryin’ into our records--huh--I’ll bet he wouldn’t feel
proud of his neighbors no matter what he’s done hisself.”

Old Bob grinned cheerfully.

“You’ve said it, Pardner, by smoke!--if he was to know, the youngster
would be hittin’ it out of this Cañada del Oro so fast you wouldn’t see
Mount Lemmon for dust. Come to think of it, it’s generally a healthy
proposition not to know too much about your neighbors--the ones that you
like, I mean. What is it the good book says: ‘Where ignorance is bliss a
man’s a darned fool to poke around tryin’ to find out things?’ As for my
gal, it’s plain to be seen that she’s plumb tickled at the way it’s all
turnin’ out an’----“

“_Your_ gal!” shrilled Thad. “Your gal!--there you go again. Holy Cats!
Have you got to be allus tryin’ to gouge me out of my rights? Can’t you
never give me a fair break?”

“Excuse me, Pardner, I forgot. As I was about to say, in my opinion
you’d better let that gal of yourn work her own way out of this. It’s
easy to see that she’s in too deep for us, an’ considerin’
everything--considerin’ everything, I say--it might not turn out so bad
after all.”

To which Thad replied:

“However it looks an’ however it turns out, my gal knows a heap more
about it than us two old sand rats ever could. We’re bankin’ on the boy,
an’ we’re trustin’ the gal, an’ we’re mindin’ our own business, you
bet!”

To which Bob responded fervently:

“You bet!”




CHAPTER XVIII

AN INDIAN’S ADVICE

     He felt that the Indian was playing some kind of a game--a game
     which the red man seemed rather to enjoy but which left the white
     man very much in the dark.


Less than a mile up the cañon creek Hugh Edwards stopped. It was
useless, he told himself, to go farther. He would wait there until
night, when, under cover of the darkness, he could return to his cabin
and secure food and the small store of gold he had accumulated. Seating
himself on a rock in the shade of a sycamore, where he could watch and
listen for any one attempting to follow his tracks, he gave himself up
to troubled thoughts.

True, the sheriff had not come for him this time, but the officers
might, while in the neighborhood, learn of his presence in the Cañon of
Gold and return to investigate. Suppose, for instance, they should meet
and talk with the Lizard. His supply of gold would not take him far, but
he must go as far as he could; as for his dream and Marta--what a fool
he had been to think that he could ever find gold enough to----

A hand touched his shoulder. With a cry he leaped to his feet, and like
a wild animal caught in a trap whirled to fight.

Natachee made the peace sign. The Indian was smiling as he had smiled
that night when Marta was in his cabin.

The white man’s nerves were on edge. He glared at the Indian angrily.

“What do you mean sneaking up on a man like that?” he demanded. “You’ll
get yourself killed for that trick some day.”

Natachee laughed, and there was a touch of scorn in his voice as he
returned:

“Not by you, Hugh Edwards.”

“And why not by me?” demanded the other, goaded by the Indian’s tone and
by the slight emphasis which the red man placed on his name.

“Because,” said Natachee coolly, “you are not the killing kind, and
because if you should, in a moment of wild madness, attempt such a
thing, I--“ he paused, then with an abrupt change in his tone and manner
said: “I am sorry that I startled you. It was unpardonably rude, I’ll
admit, and you have every reason for being angry. I did not stop to
think.”

“It is nothing,” returned Edwards. “I was a fool to fly up over such a
thing. I--I’m a bit upset just now, that’s all. Forget it.”

He resumed his seat on the rock. The Indian seated himself on the ground
near-by.

Edwards was thinking: Marta had said that Natachee had come to the house
while the officers were there. How much of the sheriff’s talk had the
Indian heard? How much had he guessed? What was he doing here?

Almost as if to answer the white man’s thoughts the Indian said
casually:

“I happened in at the Pardners’ place a while ago and found Sheriff
Burks and two deputies there. I am going to Tucson to-morrow and dropped
in to see if I could do any errand for them or for Miss Hillgrove. Then
I called at your place to offer a like service but you were not at home.
I happened to see you sitting on the rock here as I came up the cañon.”

The Indian did not explain how, before the officers were out of sight,
he had made his way with the noiseless speed of a fox to a point where
from behind rocks and bushes he had witnessed the close of the interview
between Marta and Edwards; and how, after the girl had returned to her
home, he had trailed the white man. Neither did he explain that he had
had no thought of going to Tucson when, from the mountain side, he saw
Sheriff Burks and his men ride up to the Pardners’ place.

“Thank you,” said Edwards, “there is nothing you can do for me in
Tucson.”

Natachee waited several moments before he spoke again, and the
uncomfortable thought flashed into Edwards’ mind that the Indian seemed
particularly pleased that he, the white man, had nothing to say.
Edwards, in an agony of suspense, wondering, fearing, perplexed,
baffled, dared not speak.

At last the Indian said softly:

“The sheriff and his men have gone away. They are satisfied that the
man they are looking for is not here. I assured them that there was no
stranger in the Cañada del Oro.”

“They are gone?” said Edwards doubtfully, as if he feared the Indian
were playing him some cruel trick.

“For this time,” Natachee said gravely.

“You--you--think they will come again?”

The Indian looked away and answered with odd deliberation:

“Who can say? There is always that possibility. Any day--any hour they
may come. But if, in spite of what I told Sheriff Burks, the man wanted
by him is in the Cañada del Oro, my advice to that man would be that he
stay right where he is.”

Hugh Edwards hesitated. He felt that the Indian was playing some kind of
a game--a game which the red man seemed rather to enjoy but which left
the white man very much in the dark.

“You don’t think then that he--that the man could get away, out of this
part of the country, I mean?” he said at last.

“The sheriff and his deputies will be watching every place but the
Cañada del Oro,” returned the Indian. “Because they are just now
satisfied that their man is not here, this is the one safe place for
him. And if they should by any chance return----“

“What,” cried Edwards eagerly, “what if the officers _should_ return?”

Still without looking at his companion Natachee answered:

“There are places in the Cañada del Oro where a man, if he knew these
mountains as I know them, could hide from all the sheriffs in Arizona.”

Haltingly, but with trembling eagerness, Hugh Edwards asked the
inevitable question.

“And would you, Natachee, help such a man under such circumstances?”

“I might.”

At this noncommittal answer Hugh Edwards moved uneasily.

“Do you know,” he said at last, “I have fancied sometimes that you,
being an Indian, hated all white people bitterly.”

Natachee made no reply.

Edwards continued, as one feeling his way over dangerous ground:

“And yet you seem to enjoy the company of Saint Jimmy.”

The Indian rose to his feet and stood looking down upon the white man
and something in his face--a shadow of a cruel smile, a gleam of savage
light in his dark eyes--something--made Edwards rise and draw back a
step.

“I do enjoy the company of Doctor Burton,” said the red man. “He is
suffering. He is dying slowly. He is in torment. I am Natachee the
Indian, why should I not enjoy the company of any white man who is like
your Saint Jimmy or who can be made to suffer in any way?” For a moment
he paused, then in a voice that made his words almost a command, he
added: “I will return from Tucson in three days. In the meantime if it
should be necessary for you to go into the upper part of this cañon,
find my hut if you can and make yourself at home. You will be very
welcome. If you should not find my place--if you should get yourself
lost, for instance, have no fear, I will find you. But if I were you I
would not leave my cabin and my friends down yonder unless it were
absolutely necessary.”

Without waiting for a reply the Indian turned, and climbing the steep
bank of the creek with amazing ease and quickness, disappeared.

Hugh Edwards went slowly back to his cabin.

Marta, who was watching, saw him coming and ran joyously to meet him.




CHAPTER XIX

ON EQUAL TERMS

     She did not know what it was that had made the man she loved a
     fugitive from the law. She did not care. She was glad--glad because
     now her dream of happiness with him was possible.


As Marta ran to meet him, Hugh Edwards could not but see that she was
elated and happy. Not since that morning before the storm had she been
in such a joyous mood. The depression, that since her meeting with the
Lizard had been so marked, was gone. She was again her own frank,
radiant self. But Edwards did not respond to the girl’s happiness. When
she would have spoken of the sheriff and the escaped convict he coldly
prevented her. Concealing every hint of emotion under a mask of formal
politeness, he repelled every advance and received her loving overtures
of sympathy and loyal comradeship in silence.

In those months when his friendship for Marta had ripened into love it
had not been easy for Hugh Edwards to deny himself the happiness which
the girl in her love had so innocently offered. With all the strength of
his will he had fought to do the thing that he knew to be right. A
thousand times he had told himself that to speak the words that would
make her share the black shame of the fate that hung over him would be
the part of a selfish coward. He must protect her from himself. When he
had won gold enough to insure his freedom from the life of a convict,
then he would tell her everything. With gold enough he could escape to a
foreign land and Marta, when she knew his story, would go with him. But
until he could assure himself that complete and final safety from the
prison that threatened was within his reach, both for his own sake and
for hers, he would not speak of his love.

And now suddenly the girl had learned a part of the truth. And it had
only made her love for him more evident. At the same time the incident
that had revealed to her his real purpose in coming to the Cañada del
Oro had shown him that his fancied security in the Cañon of Gold was
fancy indeed. Any day, any hour, any moment, the officers might come for
him. The Lizard, the Indian, a chance unguarded word of the Pardners,
any one of a hundred things might happen to put the men of the law upon
his track. He must not--he must not--say the word that would bring upon
the girl he loved the shame and misery that so surely awaited him if the
sheriff should find him. More than ever now he was determined to save
Marta from himself. But it was not easy. It had been hard before Marta
knew what Sheriff Burks’ visit had revealed to her--it was harder now.
If only he could find the gold.

But nothing could dampen the girl’s spirit. She was as sure of Hugh
Edwards’ love as if he had spoken. When she had believed that her own
nameless and questionable birth was the reason for his refusal to
declare his love, she had been miserable. But now that his own disgrace
had been revealed she felt that the shame of her unknown parentage need
be no longer a barrier between them. She did not know what it was that
had made the man she loved a fugitive from the law. She did not care.
She was glad--glad--because now her dream of happiness with him was
possible. She saw now that the thing which had kept him from telling his
love was not her lack of an honorable name but the dishonor of his own.
He had been shielding her from himself. His silence had not been to save
himself from the shame that she might bring to him, but rather to save
her from the shame that was already his and which an avowal of his love
would have led her to share.

And so she tried in every way to win through the guard he had set
against her and to restore the dear comradeship which had been
broken--first by the Lizard, and now through the visit of Sheriff Burks.
With every wile of her womanhood--with every art of her sex--with all
the frankness of her unspoiled nature--she offered herself. Secure in
the confidence of his love, she tempted him to break the silence which
he had with such fortitude imposed upon himself. And while her loving,
generous heart was wrung with pity for his suffering, she gloried in
the strength that enabled him to endure against her, and rejoiced in the
knowledge that his self-imposed torture was for love of her.

When she tried to make him talk to her of his past, he was silent. When
she told him of her own history, he answered, bitterly, that she was
fortunate in having no parents to disgrace, no name to dishonor. When
she asserted her belief in him no matter what he was in the eyes of the
law, he smiled grimly and remarked that, while he appreciated and was
grateful for her confidence, her opinion could in no way alter the hard
facts of the case. And every day, from the first light of the morning
until it was so dark that he could no longer see, he toiled with
desperate strength for the gold that would enable him to escape and, by
insuring his freedom, make it possible for him to ask Marta to share his
future.

He no longer saw the beauty and the grandeur of the mountains. The
flowers no longer bloomed for him. He did not hear the birds that filled
the Cañon of Gold with music. He did not now glory in the vigorous
freshness of the morning. He no longer knew the peace of the restful
nights. His every thought was of gold, gold, gold, because gold to him
meant Marta. As so many men in the Cañon of Gold had whispered in the
night, after a day of heavy fruitless toil: “To-morrow, perhaps,” this
man in the night whispered to himself: “To-morrow, perhaps.”

Then came that night when Hugh Edwards was startled out of his dream of
the golden possibilities of to-morrow by a sound at his cabin door.

Springing to his feet he stood trembling with fear and dread--had the
officers come?

Again came the sound of some one knocking lightly on the door.

With white lips he whispered to himself:

“It’s only Thad or Bob or Marta, it’s not late yet.”

But he knew that it was late. He had seen the light in Marta’s window go
out two hours ago.

Again the knocking sounded.

In desperation he threw open the door.

It was Natachee.




CHAPTER XX

THE ONLY CHANCE

     “The rabbit that is caught by the fox does not dictate to his
     captor.”


Silently the white man drew back.

The Indian stepped into the cabin and softly closed the door.

Edwards waited for his visitor to speak, while the red man gazed at him
with a hint of that fleeting, shadowy smile of cruel pleasure and
satisfaction.

“I returned from Tucson this afternoon,” he said at last. “I came back
to my place another way, over the mountains from the south. When the sun
was gone I came down here to you.”

Edwards did not know what to say. He realized that Natachee’s visit, at
that hour of the night, was more than a mere social call. He felt that
for some reason he, the white man, had suddenly become of more than mere
passing interest to the Indian. Recalling the Indian’s manner at the
time of their last meeting, he waited anxiously for what was to come. He
managed to murmur a few commonplace words of welcome.

Natachee said gravely:

“I have something to tell you--something which I think will be of
interest.”

Edwards nervously offered a chair.

When they were seated, the Indian said:

“Perhaps I should tell you that I went to Tucson in your interest.” He
smiled as he added: “In your interest--and for _my_ pleasure.”

“I can’t see how my interests have anything to do with your pleasure,”
returned the white man, stung by the touch of mockery in the Indian’s
tone.

“No? I suppose you can’t. But you will understand presently,” said the
other, as if he enjoyed the situation and would prolong the pleasure it
afforded him to witness the white man’s uneasy fears.

“Suppose you explain yourself and be done with it,” said Edwards
shortly.

“You white men are all so impatient,” murmured Natachee with taunting
deliberation. “Really, you should learn a lesson of patience from the
Indians. An Indian has need to be patient. He must wait and watch, long
and untiringly, for his few opportunities, and then when his opportunity
at last comes he must not fail through ill-advised haste to make the
most of it. The white man squanders his pleasures as he squanders his
wealth. With reckless, headlong, swinish eagerness to drink his fill at
one gulp; he spills his cup of happiness before he has really tasted it.
The Indian takes his pleasures with careful deliberation, as he compels
his enemies to bear the pain of the torture, and so he enjoys in its
fullness, to the last drop, whatever drink his gods are pleased to set
before him.”

“For God’s sake say what you have come to say and be done with it!”
cried Edwards.

The Indian laughed.

“Many a white man, in the old days, has begged an Indian to end it all
quickly and have done with it. But,” he added with triumphant insolence,
“the rabbit that is caught by the fox does not dictate to his captor. I,
Natachee the Indian, in my own way will tell you, Donald Payne, what I
have come to say.”

As the Indian spoke that name, the man, known as Hugh Edwards, sprang to
his feet with a cry.

Natachee watched the effect of his words with cruel satisfaction.

When the Indian’s victim had gained some control of his tortured nerves
and had dropped weakly into his chair again, the red man said with
savage irony:

“I regret, in a way, that Miss Hillgrove is not here to listen to my
story.”

The white man, with his head bowed in his hands, winced.

“It would add much to my pleasure if I could watch her enjoying it with
you.”

Hugh Edwards groaned as one in torment.

“But all that in good time,” continued the Indian. “I must explain now
how it came about that the rabbit, Donald Payne, is under the paw of the
Indian fox.

“When Sheriff Burks described the criminal who escaped from the
California penitentiary I saw a possible opportunity that promised me,
Natachee, no little pleasure and satisfaction--an opportunity for which
I have been waiting. Miss Hillgrove’s agitation, her going to you, and
your own action, confirmed my opinion as to where the convict who had so
far escaped the officers was to be found. But I realized that it might
be well to learn more. Thinking it unwise to appear too interested
before the sheriff, I went to Tucson--first making sure that you would
be here when I returned. In the white man’s city, clothed properly in
the white man’s costume, with careful white man’s manners, I was
permitted to search the files of the white man’s newspapers, and, thanks
to my white education, to read the shameful account of this escaped
convict’s crime.

“I learned how Donald Payne, a promising young business man and a
graduate of the California University, had held an important position of
trust in a certain investment company. This company had been
specifically planned and organized to attract the savings of small
investors. Its appeal was to the better class of workmen, who out of
their meager earnings were ambitious to put by something for the better
education of their children--widows, with a little life insurance money
upon the income of which they must exist--school-teachers, who must save
against that dread day when they could no longer work--stenographers,
clerks, and that class of poor whose education and tastes were above
their earnings, and in whose hearts hope was kept alive by the promise
of safe and honest returns from their hard-saved pennies. Every dollar
in that institution of trust represented honest human effort and worthy
ambition and heroic selfsacrifice.

“Oh, it was a white man’s enterprise, born of a white man’s devilish
cunning, and carried out with a white man’s remorseless cruelty to its
damnable end. When the people’s confidence had been won, and they had
been persuaded to place enough of their savings in the hands of these
spoilers to make it worth while, the company failed. The investors lost
everything. The promoters--the principals of the company--gained
everything. But Donald Payne, the brilliant young financial genius whose
manipulation brought about the wreck, went to San Quentin prison.

“He had served eighteen months of his sentence when he escaped. His
mother, a widow, brokenhearted over the shame and dishonor, scorned and
ostracized by her neighbors and friends, humiliated by the cruel
publicity, died in less than a month after her son was pronounced
guilty. Donald Payne is without doubt the most hated, the most despised
name in this decade.”

The man who, during the Indian’s deliberate recital, had sat cowering in
his chair, raised his haggard face. His eyes were dull with anguish, his
lips were drawn and white; but in spite of his ghastly appearance there
was a strange air of dignity in his manner as he said hoarsely:

“And is that all you know?”

The Indian waited a little as if to give the greatest possible
significance to his answer, then:

“No, not quite all. I know that this escaped convict, Donald Payne, has
learned to love a woman. And I know that this woman loves this man, who
is hiding from the officers who would send him back to prison.”

“Yes,” said the white man, hoarsely, “that is true. If it is any
satisfaction to you, I confess my love for Marta Hillgrove. I have every
reason to believe in her love for me, and--I--dare not--for her
sake--tell her of my love.”

He rose to his feet and stood before the Indian with a dignity and
strength that won a gleam of admiration from the dark eyes of his
tormentor, and in a voice ringing with passionate earnestness cried:

“But, listen, you damned red savage. You do not yet know all the truth.
Donald Payne was never guilty of the crime for which he was sentenced. I
was an innocent tool in the hands of the real criminal. It was a part of
his plan from the first that some one should be offered, a sacrifice, to
satisfy the public. He schemed far ahead to prove some one guilty and
thus secure himself. I was chosen for that end. I was promoted to a
position of trust with my sacrifice in view. It was all planned,
arranged, and carried out. The man who robbed the people and for whose
crime I was sent to prison is to-day living in Los Angeles in safety and
luxury with the wealth he acquired through the company which he promoted
and wrecked.

“The people who hate me, because they believe me guilty, do not know.
The papers that branded me with shame and heralded my disgrace to every
corner of the world do not know. The jury that convicted me did not
know. The judge did not know. My mother did not know. The penitentiary
does not know. The officers who would drag me back to it all do not
know. _But I know--I know--I know!_”

He stood madly, superbly defiant, uplifted for the moment by the
strength of his own asserted innocence. Then suddenly, as a beef animal
falls under the blow of the butcher’s killing maul, he dropped into his
chair, where he writhed in an agony greater than any physical suffering
could have wrought.

The deep voice of the watching Indian broke the silence.

“Good! It is even better than I could have believed. In my wildest
dreams I never hoped to see a white man suffer such unmerited torture.
In time, perhaps, you will even come to a degree of sympathy for an
Indian, and to understand, a little, his feeling toward the white race.”

When Hugh Edwards was able to speak again he said with dreary
hopelessness:

“They will come for me in the morning, I suppose?”

“They? Who?”

“The officers--have you not told them?”

Natachee laughed.

“I tell the officers what I know about you? I give you up for them to
take you back to the penitentiary? No--no--you do not seem to have
grasped the purpose of my efforts in your behalf. I shall keep you for
myself. I have too much pleasure in you to permit any one to take you
away from me. You shall go with me, and together we, the two outcasts,
we who are outcasts because of nothing that we have done, but only
because some one wished by our misfortune and suffering to gain riches,
we shall enjoy life together as we can.”

The note of exaltation that was in his voice, or some hint of a sinister
purpose in his manner, aroused the white man.

“You mean that you are going to help me to escape?”

“From your white man’s laws, yes. From me, no--not yet--not until I am
through with you.”

“Explain yourself,” demanded the other. “What is it that you propose? I
don’t understand.”

“It is this,” returned the Indian. “You cannot stay here because any
day--to-morrow even--the sheriff may come for you. You cannot go from
this Cañon of Gold because you would surely be caught, unless you could
leave this country, and that you cannot do because you have no money.
You shall come with me. With me you will be safe from the law. No one
will know where you are. No one shall ever find you. I, Natachee, know
these mountains as no white man can ever know them. I will hide you.”

There was something in the Indian’s face that made Hugh Edwards gaze at
him in wondering silence.

The Indian continued:

“I will show you where you can dig more gold than ever you would find
here. Who knows, perhaps you may even find the Mine with the Iron Door.
With gold enough you could make your way to safety. You could even take
the woman you love with you. And so you shall work and dream and
dream--and I, Natachee--I will help you to dream. If your dream never
comes true, if your labor is all in vain, if you never find the Mine
with the Iron Door, or if, while you are toiling for the gold you need,
the woman you love should become the wife of your friend Saint Jimmy,
why, that will not be my fault. I will help you to dream. It will be for
you to find the gold that will make your dream come true--_if you can_.”

The Indian spoke those last three words with fiendish deliberation and
sinister meaning that was unmistakable.

Hugh Edwards understood.

“You are a devil.”

“No, I am Natachee the Indian--you are a white man.”

“You would save me from prison so that you might feast your damned
revengeful spirit on my suffering.”

“It is a help for you to understand exactly my purpose,” returned the
Indian.

“What if I refused to go with you?”

“You will not refuse.”

“Why?”

“If you go with me you take your only possible chance for the future.
You might, you know, find the gold. If you do not go, I shall send you
back to prison.”

“I will go.”

“Good, but--you must understand. You will leave here with me to-night.
There will be no message--no hint to tell any one why you have gone, or
where, or that you will ever come again. As long as you are with me you
will be as one dead to all who have ever known you.”

“But Marta--Miss Hillgrove--“ cried the other.

Drawing himself up with the air of a conqueror, the Indian answered
coldly:

“I, Natachee, have spoken.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When morning came, Marta saw no smoke rising from the chimney of Hugh
Edwards’ cabin. At first she told herself, with a laugh, that Hugh was
sleeping later than usual, and went happily about her own early morning
work. But as the hours passed and there was no sign of life about the
neighboring cabin, she became uneasy. By the time breakfast was over and
the Pardners had gone to their work, the girl was fully convinced that
all was not right and went to investigate.

Knocking at the cabin door, she called:

“Hugh--Oh, Hugh!”

There was no answer.

She went hurriedly to the top of the bank above the place where he
worked.

He was not there.

Running back to the cabin she knocked again.

“Hugh--Oh, Hugh! What is the matter?”

There was no sound.

Pushing open the door she stood on the threshold. The room was empty.

The truth forced itself upon the girl with overwhelming weight. Hugh
Edwards was gone. He had not merely left his cabin for an hour or a day.
He had not stepped out somewhere to return again presently. He was
_gone_. Sometime during the night he had packed his things and had
disappeared with no parting word--no good-by--no promise--leaving no
message. He had vanished.

The girl was stunned. She argued with herself dully that she must be
mistaken--that it could not be so. Hugh, her Hugh, would never do such a
cruel, cruel thing.

From the open doorway she looked out at the familiar scene, at the cañon
walls, the mountain ridges and peaks, her home--nothing was changed. She
turned again to the empty, silent room. Hugh was gone.

But there must be something--some word to tell her--to explain.

Carefully, with slow, leaden movements, she searched every corner of the
bare room. She looked in the cupboard, under the bunk, in every crevice
of the walls. She even searched with a stick among the dead ashes in the
fireplace. There was nothing.

She did not cry out. The hurt was too deep. She sat on the threshold of
the empty cabin and tried to make it all seem real.

It was two hours later when Saint Jimmy found her sitting there.




CHAPTER XXI

THE WAY OF A RED MAN

     “The dark clouds of the white man’s lust for gold have hidden all
     the stars in the red man’s sky.”


The weeks of the “Little Spring” passed. The blossoms vanished from
mountain and foothill and mesa and desert. The air grew crisp with the
tang of frost. On the higher elevations the cold winds moaned through
the junipers and cedars--wailed among the peaks and shrieked about the
cliffs and crags. Again on Mount Lemmon the snow gleamed, white and
cold, among the somber pines.

In the wild remote region of the upper Cañada del Oro the man, known to
his friends in the Cañon of Gold as Hugh Edwards, lived with his captor,
Natachee the Indian.

The white man was not a prisoner of force--rather was he a captive of
circumstance. But captive and prisoner he was, none the less. He was
held by the red man’s threat to reveal his real name and identity as the
convict who had escaped from San Quentin, together with that hope so
cunningly offered by the Indian--the hope of finding the gold that would
bring him freedom and the woman he loved.

Every day the white man toiled with pick and shovel in a hidden gulch
where the Indian had shown to him a little gold in the sand and gravel.
Every night before the fire in the Indian’s hut he brooded over his
memories, dreamed dreams of freedom and love, or sat despondent with the
meager returns of his day’s labor. And always the Indian held out to him
the possibilities of to-morrow. To-morrow he might, at one stroke of his
pick, open a golden vein of such magnitude that the realization of all
his dreams would be assured--to-morrow--to-morrow.

His small hoard of gold increased so slowly that, unless he should
strike a rich pocket, it would be years before he could accumulate
enough to win his freedom and his happiness. But gold was his only hope.
And every day he found enough to justify the belief that all he needed
was near to his hand if only he could find it. He was held by that chain
of to-morrows.

In the meantime, what of Marta? Would her love endure? With no
explanation of his sudden disappearance--with no word of love from
him--no promise of his return--no message to bid her hope--would she
wait for him? Was her faith in him strong enough to stand under such a
cruel test?

Many times during the first weeks of his strange captivity he begged the
Indian for permission to send some word to the woman he loved. But the
red man invariably answered, “No,” with the cold warning that if he made
any attempt to communicate with any one he should be returned to
prison. When the white man realized that his importunities only served
to give the Indian a cruel pleasure, he ceased to plead.

Then one evening just at dusk the red man said:

“Come, my friend, this will not do at all. You are not nearly so
entertaining as you were. You need inspiration--come with me.”

He led the way to a point on the mountain ridge not far above the hut.
The colors of the sunset were still bright in the western sky and behind
them the higher peaks and crags were glowing in the light, but far below
in the Cañon of Gold and over the desert beyond, the deepening dusk lay
like a shadowy sea.

“Look!” said the Indian, pointing into the gloomy depths. “Do you see
it--down there directly under that lone bright star? Almost as if it
were a reflection of the star, only not so cold?”

“Do you mean that light?”

“Yes, you have good eyes for a white man,” answered the Indian. “I am
glad. I feared you might not be able to see it.”

He paused and the other, watching the tiny red point in the darkness so
far below, waited.

“That light is in the home of your friends, the Pardners and their
daughter.”

The Indian’s victim muttered an exclamation.

“In fact,” continued Natachee slowly as if to make every word effective,
“it shines through the window of Miss Hillgrove’s room.”

The white man stood with his eyes fixed on that distant light, as one
under a spell, then suddenly he whirled about, cursing his tormentor for
bringing him there.

The Indian smiled, as in the old days one of his savage ancestors might
have smiled in triumph, at a cry of pain successfully wrung from a
victim of the torture. Then he said with stern but melancholy dignity:

“I, Natachee, often come here to sit on this spot from which one may
look so far over the homeland of my Indian fathers. But for Natachee
there is no light in the window of love. Where you, a white man, see the
light, the red man sees only darkness. For Natachee the Indian there is
no soft fire of a woman’s love and home and happy children. Where the
fires of the Indian’s home life and love once burned, there are now only
cold ashes and blackened embers. I shall often see you up here watching
your star that is so near. But for me, Natachee, there is no star. The
dark clouds of the white man’s lust for gold have hidden all the stars
in the red man’s sky.”

In spite of his own suffering, Hugh Edwards was moved to pity.

On another occasion the Indian told his victim of Marta’s visit to his
hut that night of the storm. He called attention to the fact that the
very chair in which Hugh was sitting was the chair in which she had sat
before the fire. The couch upon which Hugh slept was the couch upon
which she had slept. Hugh’s place at the table had been her place.

Invariably, when he saw that the white man was nearing the limit of his
endurance, the Indian would hold before him the promise of the
future--the love and happiness that would be his when he should find the
gold--the gold that he would perhaps strike--to-morrow.

At times the Indian would be gone for two or three days. Always he left
with no word or hint that he was going. The white man would awaken in
the morning to find himself alone in the hut, or perhaps the Indian
would disappear at a moment when Hugh’s back was turned, or again
Edwards, upon returning from his work in the evening, would find that
Natachee had left the place sometime during his absence. Invariably,
when the red man reappeared, he came in the same unexpected and
unannounced manner. The white man never knew when to look for him, nor
where. Often the captive would look up from his work to find the Indian
only a few feet away, watching him.

At times, when Natachee returned from an absence of a day or more, he
would tell his victim of Marta--how he had seen and talked with her--how
she looked--what she was doing--painting such true and vivid pictures of
the girl that the captive’s heart would ache with longing. Then the
Indian, watching with devilish cunning the effect of his words, would
assure his victim that the girl loved him but that she believed he had
left her because he did not care for her, and that the grief of her
disappointment and loneliness was seriously affecting her health.

“What a pity,” the Indian would say mockingly, “that you cannot find the
gold!” And then he would picture the happiness that would come to this
man and woman--how they would go together to a place of peace and
security--how, in the fullness of their love and in the joys of their
companionship, the pain and suffering would all be forgotten. “If,” he
always added, “you could only find the gold.”

Again the red man, with fiendish skill, would tell how he had seen Saint
Jimmy and Marta together. He would talk of Saint Jimmy’s love for
her--of his tender devotion and care, and of the girl’s affection for
her teacher. He would relate how they spent hours together--how, in her
grief, Marta had sought the comforting companionship of her gentle
friend.

“I fear,” Natachee would say, “that if you do not find the gold soon it
will be too late. What a tragedy it would be for you, for Doctor Burton,
and for the girl, if, when you are able to go to her, you should find
her the wife of your friend. But to-morrow, perhaps, you will find the
gold.”

Every evening at sunset, when he thought that the Indian was away
somewhere in the mountains, Hugh Edwards would climb to that place on
the ridge from which he could see that tiny point of red light so far
below in the dark depth of the Cañon of Gold. And not infrequently, when
the light had at last gone out, he would return to the hut to learn that
the red man had been watching him.

When, under the torment of the Indian’s cruel art, the victim would
rebel, Natachee talked of the prison--of the future of shame and horror
that awaited the returned convict if he should again fall into the
clutches of the law. Reminded thus that his only chance was in finding
gold the man would return to his labor with exhausting energy.

And Hugh Edwards, with his lack of experience in such things, never once
dreamed that all the gold he dug in that hidden gulch was put there by
the crafty Indian. Night after night when the white man was sleeping,
Natachee stole from the hut to the place where his victim toiled, and
there “salted” the sand and gravel with a small quantity of the precious
metal.

In her home in the Cañon of Gold, Marta waited, as so many women have
waited while their men toiled for the yellow treasure that meant
happiness. She could not understand. But neither could she doubt Hugh
Edwards’ love. She only knew that some day he would come again. With
Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton to help her, she would be patient.

More than ever, in those days of her waiting, the Pardner’s girl
depended for strength and courage and guidance upon her two friends in
the little white house on the mountain side. More than ever, they were
dear to her.

The Pardners too had faith that their neighbor would return.

“An’ when he comes,” said old Bob, “you can bet your pile he’s comin’
with bells on. We don’t know what it is that has took him away so
suddenlike, but whatever it is, it ain’t nothin’ that we’ll be ashamed
of when we know.”

And Thad, with characteristic fervor, added:

“Well, Holy Cats, there ain’t no law, leastwise in this here Cañada del
Oro, that says a man has got to advertise every time he makes a move.
You’re tootin’--the boy’ll come back, an’ he’ll come with head up an’
steppin’ high--that’s what I’m meanin’.”

       *       *       *       *       *

It was on one of these occasions, when the Indian was taunting his
victim with the assurance that more gold than he needed was within his
reach if only he knew where to look, that the white man turned on his
tormentor with a contemptuous laugh.

“Do you think that I am fool enough to believe that you actually know of
any such rich deposit near here?”

The words seemed to have a marked effect upon the Indian. Hugh saw, with
a thrill of satisfaction and not a little wonder, that he had by chance
broken through the red man’s armor of stoical composure.

Natachee threw up his head and held himself stiffly erect with the pride
of a savage conqueror, while his eyes were gleaming with intense mental
excitement, and his voice rang with challenging force, as he said:

“You think that I, Natachee, am lying when I say that I know where there
is gold beyond even a white man’s dream of wealth?”

“I know you are lying,” returned Hugh coldly. “Your talk of great
wealth so near when I am finding so little is pure fiction. Because you
know that I would almost give my soul to find a reasonably rich pocket,
even, you have invented the story of this marvelously rich deposit, to
torture me. If I believed it were true, I might, under the
circumstances, feel worked up over it, but as it is you may as well save
your breath. You are not worrying me in the least.”

“Good!” said Natachee, “the night is very dark. If the white man is not
a coward he will come with me.”

“Go with you?” exclaimed the other. “Where?”

“You shall never know _where_,” replied the Indian. “But you shall see
that I, Natachee, do not lie.”

From a peg in the wall he took a short rope and from the cupboard drawer
a cloth and two candles. One of the candles he offered to Hugh with an
insolent smile.

“If you are not afraid of the ghosts that, in the night and the
darkness, haunt the Cañon of Gold.”

The amazed white man, snatching the candle, motioned impatiently for the
Indian to proceed.




CHAPTER XXII

THE LOST MINE

     “The hope that brought the first white man to the Cañada del Oro is
     your only hope. You shall labor--you shall find your gold--if you
     can.”


From the door of the hut the Indian led the way into the darkness.

There was no friendly moon. The sky was overcast with lowering clouds
that shut out the light of the stars. From the thick blackness of the
cañon far below, the sullen murmur of the creek came up like the growl
of angry voices from the depth of some black pit. The mountains seemed
to breathe like gigantic monsters in a weird, dream world. The very air
was heavy with the mystery of the night.

They had not gone a hundred yards before the white man lost all sense of
direction. As they made their way down the steep side of the mountain he
could scarcely distinguish the form of the Indian who was within reach
of his hand.

Presently Natachee stopped, and, lighting the candle he carried, said:

“See, there is your pick and shovel. Are you satisfied that this is the
place where you work?”

“Certainly, I can see that,” returned the other wonderingly.

“Good!” returned the Indian. “Now we will go only a little way from this
place.”

He extinguished the candlelight, and the inky darkness enveloped them
like a blanket.

“But,” he added, “I must first make sure of your never again going as we
shall go. I will blindfold you and you will follow me by holding fast to
this rope. Are you willing?”

There was a taunting sneer in his tone that would have goaded the white
man into any reckless adventure.

“As you like,” he said shortly.

When the cloth was bound securely about Hugh’s eyes, the Indian caught
him by the arms and whirled him about until he was completely
bewildered. Then he felt one end of the rope thrust into his hand.

“Come,” said the Indian, and gave a slight pull on the rope.

It was impossible for the white man to form any idea as to their course.
At times they climbed upward, then again they descended as rapidly. At
other times they made their way along some steep slope. Now and then the
Indian bade him go on hands and knees, or warned him to move with care
and to hold fast to the shrubs and bushes. At last Hugh Edwards knew
that they were entering a cavern by an opening barely large enough for
them to crawl through. He could not even guess the dimensions of this
underground chamber, but he imagined that it was a passage or tunnel,
for as they went on he touched a wall on his right and the Indian
cautioned him to keep his head down.

For some distance they walked in this fashion, then Natachee stopped,
and the white man heard him strike a match. A moment later his blindfold
was removed.

“Your candle,” said Natachee sharply, and lighted it from the one he
himself held.

The white man gazed curiously about him.

“Look!” cried the Indian. “Look and say if I, Natachee, lied when I told
you of the gold that is so near the place where you work--if only you
knew where to find it.”

Natachee the Indian had not lied. Thousands upon thousands of dollars in
golden value lay within the circle of the candlelight.

Hugh Edwards stood amazed. He could not know the full extent of the
vein, but a fortune of staggering proportions was within sight. The
farther end of the chamber was an irregular mass of rocks and earth that
had quite evidently fallen and slid from above; but the remaining walls
and ceiling were as obviously cut by human hands.

The white man looked at his companion inquiringly.

“An old mine?”

The Indian, with an air of triumph, answered:

“The Mine with the Iron Door.”

As one half dreaming feels for something real and tangible, Hugh Edwards
said hesitatingly:

“But why, knowing this, have you not made use of it--why do you leave
such wealth buried here?”

“You forget that I am an Indian,” the red man answered. “If I, Natachee,
were to tell the secret of the Mine with the Iron Door, would the white
men permit me to retain this treasure or to use it for my people? When
has your race ever permitted an Indian to have anything that a white man
wanted for himself? Suppose it were possible for me to take this
treasure without revealing the secret of the mine--of what use would its
gold be to me? Could I, an Indian, use such wealth without bringing upon
myself and my people, envy, hatred and persecution from those who say
that this is a white man’s country?

“And suppose I could use this gold? What would an Indian do with gold?
The things that the white man buys with gold mean nothing to an Indian.
We do not want the white man’s things. We do not want your factories and
railroads and ships and banks and churches. We do not want your music,
your art, your libraries and schools. An Indian does not want any of the
things that this yellow stuff means to the white man.

“Could I, with this gold, restore to my people the homeland of their
fathers? Could I destroy your cities, your government, your laws and all
the institutions of your civilization that you have built up in this,
the land that you have taken by force and treachery from my people?
Could I, Natachee, with this gold bring back the forests you have cut
down, the streams you have dried up or poisoned, the lands you have made
desolate? Could I bring back the antelope, the deer and all the life
that the white man has destroyed?”

Stooping, he caught up a piece of the quartz that was heavy with the
gold it carried. Holding it in the light of the candle, he said:

“Before the white man came, this, to the Indians, was only a pretty
stone, of no more value than any other bright-colored pebble. If the red
man used it at all it was as an ornament of trivial significance--of no
real worth. But to the white man, this is everything. It is honor and
renown--it is achievement and success--it is the beginning and the end
of life--it is sacrifice and hardship--it is luxury and want--it is
bloody war with its murdered millions--it is government--it is law--it
is religion--it is love. And it was this--this bit of worthless yellow
dirt--that brought the first white man to the Indians. For gold, the
white adventurers braved the dangers of an unknown ocean and forced
their way into an unknown land. For gold, they have robbed and killed
the people whose homeland they invaded, until to-day we are as dead
grass and withered leaves in the pathway of the fire of the white man’s
greed. We are as a handful of desert dust in the whirlwind of your
civilization.”

He threw the piece of quartz aside with a gesture of loathing, and stood
for a moment with his head lowered in sorrow.

And once again Hugh Edwards, in spite of the cruel torture to which the
Indian had subjected him, felt a thrill of pity for his tormentor.

But before the white man could find words to express his emotions,
Natachee suddenly lifted his head, and with the cruel light of savage
exultation blazing in his eyes, went a step toward his startled
companion.

“Do you understand now why I have brought you here? Do you understand my
purpose in permitting you to see, with your own eyes, the gold of the
Mine with the Iron Door?

“Your only hope of freedom, from the hell to which you have been
condemned through a white man’s trickery and by your white man’s laws,
is in gold. Only through the possession of gold can you hope to win the
woman you love and who loves you.

“You say you would give your soul for the gold which means so much to
you. Good! I believe you. I am glad. Here is the gold--look at
it--handle it--dream of all that it would bring you. Here is freedom
from your hell--here is love--here is happiness--here is the woman you
love. It is all here, within reach of your hand, and you shall never
touch one grain of it. If you had a hundred souls to offer in exchange,
you should not touch one grain of it. Because you are a white man, and
because I am an Indian.

“I, Natachee, have spoken.”

The meaning of the Indian’s words burned in the white man’s brain.
Slowly he looked about that treasure chamber as if summing up in his
mind all that it might mean to him. His nerves and muscles were tense
with agony. Beads of sweat glistened on his forehead. His face was
twisted in a grimace of pain. And in the agony of his torture a dreadful
purpose came.

The watching Indian saw, and his sinewy hand loosed the knife in his
belt, as his deep voice broke the silence of the old mine.

“No, you will not try that. You are unarmed. I would kill you before you
could strike a blow. There is no hope for you there. Your one chance is
to dig for the gold you need. You might strike it rich, you know. Who
can say--to-morrow--another stroke of your pick. The hope that brought
the first white man to the Cañada del Oro is your only hope. As so many
of your race have labored in the Cañon of Gold you shall labor--you
shall find your gold--if you can.”

The white man bowed his head.

Natachee went to him with the cloth to bind his eyes.

Quietly Hugh Edwards submitted to the bandage. The Indian extinguished
the light of the candle and thrust the end of the rope into his victim’s
unresisting hand.

“The white man is wise to take the one chance that is his,” said the
Indian. “Come. To-morrow, perhaps, you will find gold.”

Through the remaining weeks of the winter Hugh Edwards toiled with all
his strength for the grains of yellow metal that the Indian secretly
permitted him to find. Day and night the knowledge of the Mine with the
Iron Door tortured him. Many times he was tempted to abandon all hope,
and, by surrendering himself to the officers of the law, escape at least
the torment of his strange situation. But always he was held by the one
chance--to-morrow he might find the gold that meant freedom and Marta
and love.

And at last, one day in spring, when the mountain slopes again were
bright with blossoms--when the gold of the buckbean shone in the glades,
and whispering bells were nodding in the shadows of the cañon
walls--when the glory of the ocotillo, the flaming sword, was on the
foothills, and “our Lord’s candles” again fit the mesas with their
torches of white, Hugh Edwards looked up from his work in the gulch to
see a stranger.




CHAPTER XXIII

SONORA JACK

     “But here is the amazing thing--Sonora Jack knows more about these
     two old prospectors and their partnership daughter than even you
     know.”


When he saw that he was discovered, the man who was watching Hugh
Edwards came leisurely forward. At the same instant Hugh thought that he
glimpsed another figure farther away on the mountain side.

The stranger explained his presence in the neighborhood by saying that
he was hunting and had wandered farther from his camp than he had
intended. For nearly an hour he and Edwards visited in the manner of men
who meet by chance in the lonely open places. Then with a careless
_adios_ he went on his way down the cañon.

When Hugh, at the close of his day’s work, went up to the cabin,
Natachee was not at home. But when the white man had finished his supper
the Indian appeared, coming in his usual silent, unexpected way. As he
set about preparing his own supper, Natachee said:

“You had visitors to-day.”

Hugh was too accustomed to the red man’s uncanny way of knowing things
to be in the least surprised at his companion’s remark.

He answered indifferently:

“I had a visitor.”

“There were two in the neighborhood,” returned Natachee. “I saw their
tracks just before dark.”

Hugh told how only one man had talked with him but that he thought he
had caught a glimpse of another.

“That was the Lizard,” said Natachee. “I would know his tracks anywhere.
I have seen them often. His right foot turns in in a peculiar way and
his boot heels are always worn on the inside.”

Hugh Edwards caught his breath.

“Do you think they were----“

“After you?” Natachee finished for him. “I can’t say yet. It might be.
What was the man who talked with you like?”

Hugh described the stranger.

“Medium height, rather heavy, black hair, eyes very dark, a Mexican, or
at least part Mexican, I would say.”

“Did he ask many questions about you?”

“No more than any one would naturally ask.”

“Did he show any curiosity about me?”

“No, you were not mentioned. He said he was hunting but he seemed to be
rather interested, too, in prospecting and mining, and asked a lot of
questions about the country up here as if he had a general idea of the
lay of the land but was not exactly sure.”

Natachee said no more until he had finished his supper. Then, going to a
corner of the cabin at the head of his bed, he pulled up a loose board
in the floor, and from the hiding place took a revolver with its holster
and belt of cartridges.

Offering the weapon to the astounded white man, he said with a meaning
smile:

“I brought this for you from Tucson last fall. But, considering
everything, I thought that it might be just as well for you not to have
it unless some occasion should arise. I am going to leave you for a
little while. Until I return you must keep this gun within reach of your
hand every minute--day and night.”

Hugh took the weapon awkwardly.

“Do you know how to use it?” asked Natachee sharply.

The other laughed.

“Oh, yes. I know how, but I couldn’t hit a flock of barns.”

“You must carry it just the same,” returned the Indian. “But don’t do
any practicing. Keep your eyes open for any one who may be prowling
around and don’t let them see you if you can avoid it. This stranger may
be a hunter or a prospector--he may be an officer--he may be something
else. I shall know before I see you again.”

Taking his bow and quiver of arrows, the Indian went out into the night.

       *       *       *       *       *

For two days and nights Hugh Edwards was alone. Then Natachee returned.

When the Indian had eaten, with the appetite of a man who has been long
hours without food, he said:

“The man who talked with you is called Sonora Jack. He is a half-breed
Mexican; his real name is John Richards.

“For several years this Sonora Jack, with a band of Mexicans and white
outlaws, operated in this section of the Southwest. They rustled cattle,
robbed trains, looted banks and stores, and held up everybody they
chanced to run across. With their headquarters somewhere south of the
line, it was not so easy for the United States authorities to capture
them, but after a particularly cold-blooded murder of a poor old couple
who were traveling by wagon through the country, the officers and the
people were so aroused that Sonora Jack, with a large reward on his
head, moved on to other less dangerous hunting grounds. It is generally
believed that he went south somewhere in Mexico.”

“But are you sure that it was this same Sonora Jack that called on me?”

The Indian smiled.

“As sure as I am that you are Donald Payne.”

Hugh Edwards flushed as he returned coldly:

“Please don’t forget that Donald Payne is dead.”

“That depends,” retorted Natachee dryly.

The white man did not overlook the Indian’s meaning. For a time he did
not speak, then he asked:

“But what has brought this outlaw here to the Cañada del Oro?”

Natachee’s face was grave as he answered:

“The Mine with the Iron Door.”

Hugh Edwards uttered an exclamation.

“You mean that he has come to look for the lost mine?”

For several minutes the Indian did not reply, but sat as if lost in
thought, then he said, as one reaching a grave decision:

“Listen--I will tell you exactly what I have learned. It is of very
great importance to us both.

“This Sonora Jack, with a Mexican who I am quite sure is a member of his
old band, first appeared in the Cañada del Oro several days ago. They
came in by the Oracle trail and called on Doctor Burton and his mother,
telling them that they were prospectors. I have talked to the Burtons
and they do not dream of the real characters or mission of the two
strangers who camped at Juniper Spring.

“Apparently Sonora Jack and his companion met the Lizard, for they moved
down the cañon and are now living with the Lizard and his people. The
Lizard seems to be helping them with his supposed knowledge of the
country. Sonora Jack has a map, crudely drawn, and evidently very old.
Under the drawing in one corner is written:

“‘La mina con la puerta de fierro en la Cañada del Oro’--The mine with
the door of iron in the Cañon of the Gold.”

Again Hugh Edwards uttered an exclamation of astonishment.

“But how in the world do you know all this?” he demanded.

The Indian explained.

“In the Lizard’s house the table is close under one of the windows.
While Sonora Jack and his Mexican and the Lizard were looking at the map
and trying to determine the exact location of a certain gulch that was
many years ago filled by a landslide, I also looked.”

“But those dogs,” cried the white man, “they were ready to eat me one
night when I happened to call there.”

“You are not an Indian,” Natachee returned calmly. “Bows and arrows make
no sound. The Lizard will be short of dogs until he has an opportunity
to steal some new curs.”

“Fine!” said Hugh.

Natachee continued:

“I not only saw their map, but, as it happens, there is a little place
under the sill of that particular window where the adobe wall has
crumbled away from the wood, and so I could hear what was said as
clearly as if I had been sitting at the table with them.

“The Lizard told them all about the Indian who is commonly supposed to
know the secret of the lost mine. Some of the things he said I rather
think you would agree with. He also told them a good deal about you. He
knows you only by the name of Hugh Edwards, but I must say that some of
the things he reported were not what you might call complimentary.”

“I imagine not,” returned Hugh.

Again Natachee, for some time, seemed to be weighing some matter of
greater moment than the things he had related; while the white man,
seeing the Indian so absorbed in his own thoughts, waited in silence.

“There was something else that Sonora Jack and his companion talked
about,” said Natachee, at last, “something that I cannot understand.”

Then looking straight into the white man’s eyes he asked slowly:

“Will you tell me all that you know about Miss Hillgrove and her two
fathers?”

Hugh Edwards drew back and his face darkened. The Indian saw the effect
of his words and raised his hand to check the white man’s angry reply.

“I understand your thought,” he said calmly. “But I assure you I am not
amusing myself at your expense. It is for your interest as well as for
mine that I ask.”

Believing that the Indian was speaking sincerely, even though for some
reason of his own, and prompted by his alarm at this mention of Marta,
Hugh asked:

“Am I to understand that Miss Hillgrove was discussed by this outlaw and
his companions?”

“Yes,” said Natachee. “The Lizard told Sonora Jack all that he knew and
perhaps more. I am asking you so that we may know how much of the
Lizard’s story is true.”

In a few words Hugh related how the Pardners had found Marta when the
girl was little more than a baby.

When he had finished the Indian said:

“I knew the story in a general way and the Lizard told it substantially
as you have. But here is the amazing thing--Sonora Jack knows more about
these two old prospectors and their partnership daughter than even you
know.”

Hugh Edwards was speechless with astonishment.

The Indian continued:

“When the Lizard first mentioned Miss Hillgrove’s name, it was in
connection with you, and Sonora Jack only laughed and made a coarse
jest. But when the Lizard went on to tell of her relationship to Bob and
Thad, the outlaw was so excited that he almost shouted. He asked
question after question--her age--how long she and the Pardners had been
in the Cañada del Oro--where they came from--everything--and as the
Lizard answered, the outlaw would translate to his Mexican companion,
who was as excited as Sonora Jack himself. And when the Lizard had told
him all he could, the two talked together in Mexican a long time. I
cannot repeat all that was said but Sonora Jack cried many times: ‘It is
the same girl, Jose, the very same--Jesu Cristo! what luck--what
marvelous luck!’

“One thing is certain--this outlaw in some way expects to make a fortune
through the old Pardners and their girl. I do not know how. But Sonora
Jack said to the Mexican that whether they found the lost mine or not,
their coming to the Cañada del Oro was certain now to make them both
rich.”

“Is it possible,” asked Hugh, “that Thad and Bob were one time in any
way mixed up with this Sonora Jack?”

“I thought of that,” returned Natachee, “and the next day I watched to
see if the outlaws went to the Pardners. They did--they spent nearly two
hours talking with Miss Hillgrove and her fathers. Then they went with
Thad and Bob down to their mine, leaving the girl at the house. They
were with the Pardners over an hour.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Hugh Edwards was greatly disturbed by what Natachee had learned. His
first fear, that the stranger who had talked with him was an officer,
was as nothing compared with his fear now for Marta. All night he
pondered over the situation with scarce an hour of sleep. When morning
came he told the Indian that he was going back to his old cabin to be
near the girl--prison or no prison.

“But can’t you see what a foolish move that would be?” asked Natachee.
“The Pardners know who you are. If they have been, in the past,
connected with Sonora Jack, which is very possible, they will turn you
over to the sheriff in short order to protect both the outlaw and
themselves. If that should happen either through them or through any one
else, you certainly would be in no position to help Miss Hillgrove. You
do not even know yet that Miss Hillgrove is in danger. Sonora Jack will
do nothing until he has satisfied himself about the lost mine, which
brought him into this country at the risk of his life. You can depend on
that. While he is searching for the mine I may be able to learn more of
his interest in the Pardners and their girl. Be patient or you will
spoil everything.”

And Hugh, because he felt that Natachee for the time being was his ally,
listened to his advice. The white man did not deceive himself as to the
real reason for the Indian’s interest in the situation. Nor did the red
man make any pretenses. But even at that, Hugh felt that he would be
better able ultimately to protect Marta, if for the present he fell in
with the red man’s plan to learn the exact nature of Sonora Jack’s
interest in the girl.

All that forenoon Natachee did not leave his cabin. But after their
noonday meal he followed Hugh down into the gulch where, for a long
time, he sat on a rock watching the white man at his work. Then he went
back to the hut on the mountain side above.

When Edwards, a little before sunset, climbed the steep way from the
place of his labor up to the cabin, the Indian was gone.

No second glance was needed to tell the white man that the cabin had
been the scene of a terrific struggle.




CHAPTER XXIV

THE WAY OF A WHITE MAN

     He was conscious of but one thing--a thing that was born of his
     white man’s soul.


With a cry of dismay Hugh ran to the place where he kept hidden his
hoard of gold. His pitifully small earnings were untouched. Natachee’s
bow and quiver of arrows, without which the Indian never left the cabin,
were in their usual place. His hunting knife, which was always in his
belt, was lying on the floor. It was not difficult for Hugh to guess
what had happened.

Sonora Jack, unable with the help of his map to find the Mine with the
Iron Door, and believing that Natachee knew the location of the treasure
had sought the Indian to force him to reveal the secret. While Natachee
was in the gulch with Edwards, Sonora Jack and his companions had
entered the cabin, and waiting there had taken the Indian by surprise
when he returned. The ground in front of the cabin was trampled by
horses, and the tracks of their iron shoes were clear, leading away down
the mountain toward the lower cañon. There was no doubt in Hugh’s mind
but that the outlaws had taken Natachee away with them. Without
hesitation he set out to follow the tracks as fast as he could in the
failing light. He was wholly without experience in such matters, but the
ground was soft from the winter rains and the three horses left a trail
that was easy enough to follow.

When it became too dark to see, he was a mile or two from the cabin,
well down on the steep slope of what he thought must be a spur of
Samaniego Ridge. He had set out to follow the outlaws upon the impulse
of the moment. In his excitement, he had not paused to think. But now,
when he could no longer see the tracks, he was forced to stop and
consider the situation with more deliberation.

Hugh Edwards realized that he was in every way but poorly equipped to
meet such an emergency. What, he asked himself, could he do if he should
succeed in finding the outlaws with their captive? If it had been a
question of meeting Sonora Jack alone and bare-handed, he would have no
reason to hesitate. Certainly he would not fear to face such an issue.
Hugh Edwards was far from being either a weakling or a coward. But
Sonora Jack was not alone. There were two others with him and they were
undoubtedly well armed, while their desperate characters were clearly
evidenced by their successful attack on Natachee. Hugh smiled grimly and
touched the weapon at his side as he recalled how he had said to
Natachee:

“I could not hit a flock of barns.”

After all, why should he concern himself with Natachee’s affairs? The
red man had never professed anything even approaching friendship for
him. For weeks the Indian had held him a prisoner and with all the
cruelty and cunning of his savage fathers had tortured him. Why not
abandon him now to his fate? Why not return to the hut, take what gold
he had accumulated and make his way out of the country? But as quickly
as these thoughts raced through his mind, Hugh Edwards dismissed
them--Marta.

If Natachee had not told him of Sonora Jack’s interest in the old
prospectors and their partnership daughter it might, perhaps, have been
possible for him to desert the Indian now. But in spite of his hatred
for his tormentor, and in spite of the bitter, revengeful purpose which
he knew inspired the red man’s interest in his affairs and in the woman
he loved, Hugh needed Natachee’s help. Perhaps even now, at that very
moment, the Indian was finding, through Sonora Jack, a key to the
mystery of Marta Hillgrove’s birth and parentage. At any cost he, Hugh
Edwards, must find the outlaws and their captive.

But how? He could not go to Thad and Bob for help. Natachee had made the
possible connection between the old prospectors and Sonora Jack too
clear. Even if he could have found his way in the night to Marta’s home,
he would not dare appeal to them. Saint Jimmy--George Wheeler and his
cowboys? It would be worse than useless for one of Hugh’s inexperience
to attempt to find his way such a distance through such a wild country
in the darkness of the night. He realized hopelessly that he did not
even know which way to start.

He decided at last that the only course possible for him was to wait
with what patience he could for the morning, and then to continue
following the tracks of the horses. He had barely reached this decision
and settled down in the poor shelter of a manzanita bush to pass the
long cold hours of discomfort and anxiety, when he saw, at some distance
down the mountain from where he sat, a strange glow of light.

It was not a camp fire. It was too soft--too diffused. It was not like
the light of that window which he had watched so many lonely hours. It
was not so steady and it was nearer--much nearer. He could see the trees
and bushes that fringed the top of a cliff. Why--that was it--the light
was from below--there was a fire at the foot of that cliff. He could not
see the fire itself because--why, of course--the cliff that was lighted
from below was the other side of a narrow gorge. He was too far away,
and the walls were too steep for him to see the bottom.

As quickly as possible, but with every care to make his movements
noiseless, Hugh Edwards stole toward the light. In a few minutes, that
seemed hours to him, he was close to the rim of the gorge. Lying flat on
the ground, he crawled with even greater caution to the edge of the
precipice, where through the fringe of grass and bushes he looked down.

The place was, as he had reasoned, a deep, narrow cañon with sheer walls
of rock. The cliffs on the side where he lay were fully fifty feet from
base to rim, and for about a hundred years they formed a half circle,
giving a width to the little cañon at that point of about the same
distance. At one end of this natural amphitheater, where a creek came
tumbling down over granite ledges and bowlders, a man with his arms
outstretched could almost touch both walls of the hall-like passage. The
lower end was wider, with no rocks to obstruct the entrance. Except for
the creek which ran close to the foot of the cliff opposite the
semicircular side where Hugh lay, the floor was smooth and level with a
number of mesquite trees and several giant cottonwoods. It was in the
more open center of this arena that Hugh Edwards saw a thing that made
him catch his breath with a shuddering gasp, while his heart pounded and
his hand went to the gun on his hip.

On a large, altar-shaped rock that had been dislodged from the walls
above by some force of nature, Natachee lay bound. The Indian was on his
back with his arms and legs drawn down and tied securely to the rock, so
that, save for his head, he was held immovable, but with no rope across
his body.

Sonora Jack stood beside the rock giving directions to his companions,
the Lizard and a Mexican, who were looking after the fire. Nearer the
entrance to the amphitheater were three saddle horses. On the opposite
side of the open space about the rock, and beyond the fire, the men had
placed their rifles against the trunk of a cottonwood. The eyes of the
man on the rim of the cañon wall had barely noted these details when
Sonora Jack turned from his companions by the fire to Natachee.

“Well,” he said, and every word carried distinctly to the man above,
“how about it, Indio, you got something to say, yet?”

Natachee did not speak.

“You not want to tell, heh? All right, you’re some bravo Indio, but you
goin’ to beg me to let you talk ’fore I get through with you. I got
nothin’ ’gainst you, but you know where that Mine with the Iron Door is
an’ sure as fire is hot you’re goin’ to lead me to it. I don’t come all
the way up here from Mexico City just for nothin’. You show me the old
mine, an’ you can put in the rest of your years growin’ old nice an’
easy. If you don’t--“ he paused significantly, then called to his two
helpers: “Put plenty mesquite on that fire, boys, we want plenty good
red coals. This Indio here needs a little warmin’ up, I think.” Bending
over his victim he said again: “Well, how ’bout it, you goin’ to come
through?”

Save for the glittering light in the dark eyes of the red man, the
outlaw might have been talking to a stone image.

Enraged by the silent strength of that opposing will, Sonora Jack went
closer to the Indian’s side.

“Mebby you no sabe what I’m goin’ to do to you. Mebby you think I got
you here on this rock just for a bluff. Not much, I ain’t. If you don’t
come across an’ show me that mine, I’m goin’ to put ’bout a hatful of
them red coals right here.” With his open hand he slapped Natachee’s
naked chest. “You do what I say or I burn the red heart out of you, an’
I ain’t hurryin’ the job neither. You ain’t the first mule-head hombre
I’ve made loosen up.”

Hugh Edwards drew back from the edge of the cliff. For a single instant
he was sick with horror. Then the blood of his race surged through his
veins with tingling strength. In that moment it meant nothing to him
that the man bound to the rock down there was an Indian. It made no
difference that the red man, with cunning cruelty, had for weeks
ingeniously tortured him to gratify a savage thirst for revenge against
all white people. He did not, at the moment, even remember Marta and his
need of Natachee’s help. It mattered nothing that there were three of
those fiends down there and that he was alone. He was conscious of but
one thing: a thing that was born of his white man’s soul. That deed of
unspeakable brutality must not--should not--be accomplished.

Swiftly he made his way along the rim of the cañon toward the upper end
of the semicircle. He felt as if he were acting in a dream, or as if
some spirit over which he had no control dominated him. But even as he
moved, a plan flashed before him, and he saw clearly every detail of the
only part he could play with the slightest hope of success. The narrow
passage through which the creek entered the amphitheater was hidden from
the men by the deep shadows of the trees. Their rifles were on that side
of the fire.

A short distance above the scene of the impending tragedy he found a
place where he could descend, half sliding, half falling, to the creek,
while the noise of the stream covered any sound from that direction. A
moment more and he had let himself down over the rocks and bowlders,
around which the waters roared, and stood behind the trunk of one of the
giant cottonwoods, not a hundred feet from the outlaw and his
companions. With sheer strength of will he restrained his impulse to
rush forward and throw himself upon those fiends in human form as they
bent over their fire.

He must wait. He must watch for the exact moment.

It was not long.

Sonora Jack, from the Indian’s side, called to his companions:

“Ya chito tray la lumbre--bring the fire.”

To Natachee, the outlaw said:

“One more time I ask you, Indio, are you goin’ to take me to the mine?”

There was no answer.

The Lizard and the Mexican raked a quantity of live coals from the fire
on to a flat rock.

Behind the tree, Hugh Edwards crouched in readiness.

The two men who were kneeling at the fire rose and started toward the
Indian. Sonora Jack faced toward his victim. It was the moment for which
the man behind the tree was waiting.

With all his strength, Hugh Edwards ran for the tree against which the
three rifles were standing. He reached his goal at the same instant that
the men with the coals of fire arrived at the rock.

With a shout, Hugh began emptying his revolver in the general direction
of the outlaws.

The Lizard, with a scream of terror, ran for the horses. The Mexican and
Sonora Jack, under the combined shock of that fusillade of shots from
the direction of their rifles, with those accompanying yells and the
Lizard’s screaming flight, leaped for the safety of their mounts. The
horses in their fright added to the confusion.

Dropping his revolver and snatching two of the rifles, Hugh ran forward
to the Indian. By the time Sonora Jack and his companions had succeeded
in mounting their struggling horses, he had cut the ropes that bound
Natachee, and the Indian and the white man, from the shelter of the
rock, were firing into the shadowy group of plunging animals and cursing
men.

As the outlaws disappeared in the darkness beyond the entrance to the
amphitheater, Natachee caught his rescuer by the arm:

“Quick, we must get out of this light before Sonora Jack gets hold of
himself.”

Swiftly he led the way up the creek.

       *       *       *       *       *

An hour later, in the Indian’s cabin, Natachee stood before his white
companion. With an expression which Hugh Edwards had never before seen
on that dark countenance, the red man spoke in the manner of his
people.

“Before the winter snows came, a white rabbit was caught by an Indian
fox. The snows are gone and the rabbit has become a mountain lion. Why
has the lion saved his enemy, the fox, from Sonora Jack’s fire?”

“Why,” stammered Hugh, “I--I--really, you know, I couldn’t do anything
else. I saw the light, then I saw what those devils were going to do,
and--well--I simply couldn’t stand for it.”

“I, Natachee the Indian, have no claim on you, a white man. I have been
your enemy. I am an enemy to all of your blood. I have tortured you in
every way I knew. I would have continued to torture you.”

“That has nothing to do with it,” retorted Hugh coldly. “I didn’t do
what I did because I thought you were my friend.”

The Indian smiled with grave dignity.

“The live oak never drops its leaves like the cottonwood. The pine never
blossoms like the palo verde. A coyote in the skin of a bear would still
act like a coyote. A deer never forgets that it is not a wolf. You, Hugh
Edwards, saved me, your enemy, from the coals of fire, because you could
not forget your nature--because you could not forget that you are a
white man. I, Natachee, will not forget that I am an Indian.”

With these words he bowed his head and, turning, went to take his bow
and quiver of arrows from beside the fireplace.

Standing in the doorway, he spoke again:

“I must go. Sonora Jack will not come here again to-night. If he should,
I will be near. Sleep in peace. When I return I will have something to
tell you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

All that following day, Hugh Edwards watched for another visit from
Sonora Jack and his companions, and waited with no little anxiety for
Natachee’s return.

But the outlaws did not come again. It was a little after noon the
second day when the Indian finally appeared. He was driving four burros
equipped with packsaddles.

When Hugh expressed surprise at sight of the pack animals, Natachee
offered no explanation. In stolid silence the Indian prepared his
dinner. He ate as if he had not touched food for many hours. When he had
finished he said simply:

“I must sleep. In two hours I will awaken. Then we will talk. Do not go
away from the cabin, please. Watch! If you see anything moving on the
mountain side, call me.”

He threw himself on his couch and almost instantly was sound asleep.

Hugh Edwards, sitting just outside the cabin door, waited.

A gentle wind breathed through the trees of juniper and live oak and
cedar and sighed among the cliffs and crags; and from below, faint and
far away, came the murmur of the distant creek. He saw the sunlight,
warm on the green of the cottonwoods and willows in the Cañon of Gold.
He watched the cloud shadows drifting across the mountain slopes and
ridges and, looking up to the high peaks, saw the somber pines against
the blue of the sky.

A rock wren from a bowlder near by observed him with friendly eye and
bobbed a cheerful greeting, and a painted redstart swung on a cat-claw
bush. From somewhere on the side of the gulch where he worked came the
exquisitely finished song of a grosbeak. The towering cliffs behind the
cabin echoed the hoarse croaking call of a raven and now and then there
was a flash of black and white and a bulletlike whiz, as a company of
white-throated swifts shot past.

But no human thing moved within the range of his vision.

As he watched, he pondered the meaning of the Indian’s manner. The red
man had often remained silent for days at a time. But now, under the
peculiar circumstances, Hugh felt that there was an unusual significance
in Natachee’s native reticence. What had the Indian been doing? Where
had he been? What had he learned? What was the meaning of those four
burros?

The deep voice of the Indian broke in upon his thoughts. Natachee was
standing in the doorway.




CHAPTER XXV

THE WAYS OF GOD

     “Listen carefully now and hear with your heart what I, Natachee,
     shall say.”


The Indian spoke with that strange dignity of mingled pride and pathos
that so often moved the white man to pity:

“Hugh Edwards, the mountain streams that are born up there among those
peaks are obedient to the will of Him from whose hand the snows fall.
From their cradles among the roots of the pines, they start for the sea
that lies many days beyond that faint blue line yonder, where the earth
and the sky become one. Nor is there any doubt but that the waters, in
the end, reach the appointed place for which they set out. But how or
when, no mortal can say, for the creeks are forced to change their
plans. The clearly marked trail upon which they first set out comes to
an end. The waters that run with such noisy strength down the mountain’s
slopes sink into the desert, and are lost forever to human eyes.

“It is so with the plans of men. The will of Him who sets the unknown
ways by which these mountain waters shall reach the sea determines also
the unknown ways that men shall go through this life, even to that place
where the spirit’s journey ends. The trail, which at first is so
clearly marked, sinks from sight and is lost in a desert of things which
no mortal can know.

“I, Natachee, in following the trail of my destiny, have come to such a
place. The course which lay before me as plain as the bed of a mountain
stream is changed. I can no longer go the way I had planned. I am an
Indian. You have said many times that I am a devil--good. Under certain
circumstances every man is a devil. Change the circumstances and the
devil becomes something else. Listen carefully now and hear with your
heart what I, Natachee, shall say.

“Sonora Jack and his Mexican have left the home of the Lizard, but the
Lizard has gone with them. The three are camped in the foothills a few
miles from the home of the Pardners and their girl. They are hiding
there because they do not know how many there were in the party that
rescued me. It was well that you made so much noise. But Sonora Jack
will not hide long. When he is sure that he is not being followed by a
posse, he will move. But he will not again attempt to find the Mine with
the Iron Door. He fears to stay longer in the Cañon of Gold lest he be
prevented from carrying out some other plan. I could not learn what that
other plan is. I know only that it concerns Marta Hillgrove and the
Pardners. Whatever Sonora Jack plans, it is not good. We must go at once
that we may protect your woman.”

Hugh Edwards spoke as one who finds it hard to believe what he has
heard:

“You say that _we_ must go--that we must protect Marta? Do you mean that
you will help me to save her from whatever threatens through this Sonora
Jack?”

Natachee bowed his head for a moment, then met the white man’s eyes
proudly.

“Did I not say that the trail which I, Natachee, was following had
suddenly changed as the course of a mountain stream is lost in the
desert sands? When Sonora Jack and his companions caught me and tied me
with their ropes to that rock, I was as helpless as a dove in the coils
of a snake. Do you think that I, Natachee, would have weakened under
their torture fire? Sonora Jack would have burned the heart out of the
Indian’s breast but he never would have heard from the Indian’s lips the
secret of the Mine with the Iron Door. It is not a new thing for an
Indian to be tortured for gold. I, Natachee, would have died as so many
of my fathers have died, without a word. But you, a white man, obedient
to your strange white man’s nature, offered your own life to save the
life of Natachee the Indian, who had for months been torturing you. The
trail of hatred and revenge that lay so clear before the red man is lost
in the strange desert of the white man’s ways. I, Natachee, cannot
understand, but who am I to disobey? The life you saved belongs to you,
Hugh Edwards. I, Natachee, am yours until I pay the debt. Can the heart
of the white man understand?”

The Indian, with an earnestness that left no doubt of his sincerity,
offered his hand. And Hugh Edwards, though he did not yet realize the
full significance of the Indian’s words, gladly accepted the proffered
friendship, saying as he grasped the Indian’s hand:

“I am more than glad you feel that way about it, Natachee, but really,
old man, I’m afraid you overrate what I did. I can’t believe yet that
those fellows would have dared to go the limit with you. They might have
burned you pretty bad, I’ll grant, but----“

At the touch of the white man’s hand and the hearty comradeship of his
words, Natachee dropped his Indian manner and became the Natachee of the
white man’s schools. Smiling, he said:

“It is evident, my friend, that you do not know Sonora Jack and his
methods. I hope for your sake that if you are ever introduced to him you
will kill him before he can identify you as the man who blocked his way,
as he thinks, to the treasure which brought him from Mexico at such a
risk.

“But no more of this,” he added. “We have work to do. I went to see
Doctor Burton and told him everything--everything except of our visit to
the mine. Together we made a plan and he bade me assure you of Marta’s
love and tell you how glad he was for you. Then I called on the Pardners
as the Doctor and I had agreed was best. They knew no more of Sonora
Jack than every one who lives in this part of Arizona knows. I explained
to the old prospectors and their girl why you had disappeared and how
you had been hiding with me this winter. I told them of your innocence
of the crime for which you are under sentence--of your love for
Marta--of your efforts to find the gold that would enable you to leave
the country and take her with you. I leave you to imagine the girl’s
happiness. She would have come to you with me but I would not permit it.
I promised her that instead to-morrow you should go to her.”

Hugh Edwards, in a fever of longing and anxiety, paced to and fro.

“But why to-morrow?” he cried. “Why not now--this moment? Who can say
what may happen while we wait?”

Natachee answered:

“We have work to do first. Listen--you are not safe for a day, once you
show yourself again. The Lizard has talked too much as I told you he
would. Your disappearance set everybody to wondering, then to
questioning and guessing. You can only save yourself and Marta by
leaving the country before the sheriff learns that you are here and
before Sonora Jack can carry out his plan, whatever it is. Doctor Burton
will have everything arranged. To-morrow you will go.”

“But--but”--stammered Hugh--“I have no money. There is not gold enough
to buy even my own way out of the country, much less to take Marta with
me.”

The Indian laughed.

“I told them you had struck the rich pocket that you have been working
so hard to find. Bob and Thad loaned me those burros there to bring down
the gold. The Pardners will cash your gold as if they had found it in
their own little mine. Doctor Burton and I planned it all. He will
advance money for your immediate needs until your own gold is in the
bank.”

“But I tell you I have no gold.”

“You forget,” returned the Indian calmly, “the Mine with the Iron Door.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When it was dark, Natachee said:

“Come, we must not lose an hour.”

Taking one of the burros with a number of ore sacks which he had brought
from the Pardners, the Indian led the way down into the gulch where he
put Hugh’s pick on the packsaddle. Then tying the cloth over the white
man’s eyes and placing one end of the rope in his hand, he went on;
Hugh, in turn, leading the burro. When they arrived near the entrance to
the mine, they left the pack animal and went into the tunnel.

Removing the cloth from his companion’s eyes, Natachee said:

“You shall remain here to dig the gold. I will carry it out to the burro
and take it to the cabin. I trust you not to leave this spot until I am
ready to take you back as we came.”

Hugh laughed.

“You may trust me. I’ll promise not to put my head out even. I’ll be too
busy to waste any time investigating.”

“Good!” said the Indian and the two men fell to work.

All night long, Hugh Edwards toiled with his pick, while Natachee sorted
the ore, selecting only the richest pieces of quartz for the sacks. As
fast as the sacks were filled, he carried them from the mine and packed
them on the burro. When they had a load, the Indian led the pack animal
away, to return later for another. It was a full two hours before
daybreak when Natachee announced that they had taken out all that the
four burros could carry. With this last load he led Hugh out of the mine
and back to the cabin. Then, while the white man prepared breakfast, the
Indian went once more to the mine to destroy every evidence of their
visit and to obliterate every sign of the tracks they had made going and
returning. When he again appeared at the cabin, the gray light of the
coming day shone above the crest of the mountains. With the four burros
loaded with the precious ore, the two men set out for the Pardners’ home
in the lower cañon.

They had reached a point on Samaniego Ridge above the house when
Natachee, who was leading the way, stopped suddenly with a low
exclamation.

“What is the matter?” cried Hugh.

The Indian motioned for the white man to come to his side. Silently he
pointed down at the little house on the floor of the cañon below.

“Well, what is it--what is the matter--what do you see?” said Hugh,
gazing at the familiar scene.

“There is no one there,” returned the Indian in a low voice, “no one
about the house--the door is closed--no one at the mine--no horse in the
corral--no smoke from the chimney. And see,” he pointed to three
buzzards that were circling about the yard in the rear of the house.
While they looked, another huge bird joined the group, and then another.

With a cry, Hugh Edwards started forward, but Natachee caught him by the
arm.

“Wait, you do not know who may be watching for you to come--wait.”

Quickly the Indian led the burros into a little hollow that was fringed
with thick bushes, where he tied them securely. Then showing Hugh where
to lie in a clump of manzanita so that he could watch the vicinity of
the house below, the red man disappeared in the brush.

For what seemed hours to him, Hugh Edwards waited with his eyes fixed on
the scene below. There was no movement--no sign of life about the little
house. The Indian had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. The
company of buzzards increased until there were eight or ten now wheeling
above the silent dwelling.

The watching man had almost reached the limit of his patience, when to
his amazement the front door of the house was thrown open and Natachee
stepped out.

The Indian signaled his companion to come, and Hugh plunged with
reckless haste down the steep side of the ridge.

The old prospector, Thad Grove, was lying on his bed unconscious from a
blow that had cut a deep gash on the side of his head. Natachee had
found him on the floor in front of the door to Marta’s room. At the end
of the living room, opposite the door to the girl’s chamber, Sonora
Jack’s Mexican companion was lying on the floor severely wounded. Though
unable to move, the man was conscious and his eyes followed the Indian
with the look of a crippled animal at bay.

The body of the other Pardner was lying in a queer twisted heap in the
yard, halfway between the kitchen door and the barn.

Marta was gone.




CHAPTER XXVI

THE TRAGEDY

    --signs, which were as clear to the Indian as the words on a
     printed page.


At first, when his mind was able to grasp the terrible facts of the
tragedy, Hugh Edwards nearly lost control of himself. But Natachee
steadied him. The Indian assured him with such confidence that Marta was
in no immediate danger that he took heart again.

“The girl is worth too much money to Sonora Jack for him to harm her,”
continued Natachee. “He has carried her away, yes, but remember we know
that he expects somehow to make a fortune through her. You may depend
upon it he will take every care to keep her safe.”

“But how can you know?” said Hugh, wondering at the certainty of the red
man’s words.

The Indian answered quickly:

“Because the outlaw, even in his haste, was careful to take the girl’s
things with her.” He led his companion into the girl’s room. “Look--this
closet is nearly empty. The drawers of this dresser are all pulled out
and there is almost nothing left in them. Her toilet articles even are
not here. There are no blankets left on this bed. I tell you there is
much for you to hope for yet, my friend, if you can make yourself as
cool and self-controlled as I know you are brave.”

When they had returned to the room where the old prospector lay, the
Indian, after bending over the unconscious man for a moment, turned
again to Hugh; slowly he said:

“There is no night so dark but there is a little light for those whose
eyes are good. Always one can see the mountain peaks against the sky.
The Mexican there will not talk, and I have not yet looked about outside
the house, but some things are very clear. This happened last night,
because there are still a few coals among the ashes in the kitchen stove
and the clock was wound as usual. Sonora Jack will go to Mexico--he does
not dare remain in the United States where there is a reward out for
him. At the best possible time, it will take him two days to reach the
line. He will not travel with his woman prisoner by daylight. That he
expects to lay up during the day is shown by his taking every particle
of food he could find in the house. It is not likely that he got started
before midnight. With the girl’s clothing, the bedding, the provisions,
and his own things, he must have taken a pack animal. Good! I, Natachee,
will follow a trail like that as fast as a horse can run.”

Hugh Edwards put his hand on the Indian’s arm.

“We can get horses and men at Wheeler’s,” he said quickly. “It ought not
to take an hour to raise a posse. We can telephone the sheriff from the
ranch. Come on.”

He started toward the door but the calm voice of the Indian checked him.

“You forget. This is no time for you to meet the sheriff. No one but
Doctor Burton and his mother must know of this, until you are safe out
of the country.”

“I am a fool, Natachee, I forgot. Tell me what to do.”

For a moment the Indian again bent over the unconscious man on the bed,
then he said:

“We cannot leave Thad like this. He must have a doctor. I am going to
bring the Burtons. While I am away, you must not leave the old man’s
side. He might regain consciousness for a moment and you must be ready
to hear anything that he can tell you. And keep your eye on that Mexican
snake out there in the other room. He is the kind that may try something
desperate to keep Thad from ever speaking again, for the old prospector
is the only one who can tell us exactly what happened here last night.
Do you understand?”

“I do,” returned Hugh. “You can trust me.”

A moment later the Indian was running up the cañon trail toward the
little white house on the mountain side.

Two hours later Natachee returned with Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton,
who were riding and carrying on their horses a supply of food.

While Doctor Burton with his mother and Hugh were doing all that could
be done for Thad and for the wounded Mexican, Natachee, with the
swiftness and certainty of a well-bred hunting dog, examined every foot
of the ground in the vicinity of the house, the barn and the corral.

When the Indian was satisfied that he could learn nothing more, he
climbed swiftly up the steep side of the cañon to the spot where he and
Hugh had left the four burros with their heavy loads of gold. Edwards
was just coming from the house when Natachee, leading the burros,
arrived at the gate. Together the two men took the animals with their
precious burdens down into the creek bottom and across to the Pardners’
little mine, where they hurriedly buried the sacks of gold in the dump
at the mouth of the tunnel.

And then--not far from the house, between two wide-spreading mesquite
trees, where a pair of cardinals had their nest and mocking birds loved
to swing and sing in the moonlight, where anemone and sweet peas and
evening primroses never failed to bloom, the white man and the Indian
dug a grave.

There was no time to secure a coffin. They dared not make any public
announcement now, nor wait for any formal ceremony. With tender hands
they wrapped the old-timer in his blankets and gently laid him in his
resting place. And who shall say that Mother Burton’s simple prayer was
not as potent before that One who judges not by pomp and ceremony, as
any ritual ordained by church or creed? And who shall say that the old
prospector himself would not have wished it to be done just that way? As
Saint Jimmy said gently:

“After all, it is not the first time that Bob has slept on the ground.”

While Mrs. Burton was preparing a hurried dinner, Natachee told Hugh and
Saint Jimmy the story of the tragedy, as he had read it from the tracks
about the premises--signs which were as clear to the Indian as the words
on a printed page.

“There were three of them,” said Natachee. “They came from down the
cañon. It was after everybody in the house was sleeping, because Sonora
Jack would not start from where he was hiding in his camp until after
dark. The third man was the Lizard. They left their horses and a pack
mule at the gate. The marks of the Lizard’s feet, where he dismounted,
are very clear. Jack and the Mexican went to the corner of the house
there at the back. They crouched close to the ground against the wall so
they would not be seen easily in the dark, and waited, while the Lizard
went to the barn and frightened the pinto so that the noise would waken
the Pardners and cause one of them to come out to see what was the
matter with the horse.

“Bob came out by the kitchen door and started for the barn. He did not
see the men who were behind the corner of the house. When the old
prospector was halfway to the barn, Jack and the Mexican ran upon him
from behind. Bob fought them but he had no chance. Perhaps he called to
Thad. I think not, however, from what happened in the house. Either Jack
or the Mexican killed him with a knife, because the Lizard would not
have had time to come from the barn.

“Then the Lizard went to stand guard at the front of the house to
prevent Marta from escaping by that door, and to give warning in case
any one should come. His tracks are there by the porch. The two outlaws
went into the house by the kitchen door. Thad probably had also been
awakened by the noise at the barn, and while waiting for Bob to come
back must have heard Jack and the Mexican. He was trying to prevent them
from entering Marta’s room when he shot the Mexican, and Sonora Jack
struck him down.

“The Lizard, I think, is with Jack and the girl. He seems to have turned
his own horse loose and taken the Mexican’s. Marta is riding her pinto.
They have taken the pack mule.”

As Natachee finished, Mrs. Burton called them to dinner.

While they were eating, the Indian asked the Doctor about Thad’s
condition.

“I cannot say yet, as to his complete recovery,” returned Saint Jimmy,
“but I feel reasonably sure that he will pull through all right. I am
quite certain that he will regain consciousness for a time at least. But
the Mexican has no chance. He will live for several days, perhaps, but
the end is certain.”

“Good!” said Natachee. “You and Mrs. Burton will stay here until Edwards
and I return, will you?”

“Indeed we will,” returned Mother Burton quickly.

“Good!” said the Indian again. “We should be back the morning of the
fourth day.”

He looked at Doctor Burton inquiringly.

“We will save time getting started if we take your horses. The Pardners’
horses are out on the range somewhere--and to go to Wheeler’s for help
would mean the sheriff.”

“They are yours. Take them, of course,” said Doctor Burton and his
mother in a breath.

“We will take a little food for to-night and to-morrow,” continued the
Indian, “and a canteen of water. With a little grain for the horses and
the Pardners’ guns, that will be all, except”--he smiled grimly--“my bow
and arrows.”




CHAPTER XXVII

ON THE TRAIL

     What madness to think that Natachee could ever find them in that
     seemingly infinite space.


The trail, left by Sonora Jack, led Edwards and Natachee down the creek
and out of the cañon by the old road. But a mile or two beyond the
crossing, the outlaw had left the road for a course more to the west
through the foothills. And here, in the soft ground where there were no
other tracks, the marks of the horse’s iron-shod feet were very clear,
even to the white man. But when Edwards would have urged his mount
forward, the Indian checked him.

“There are many miles of desert ahead of us, my friend,” said Natachee.
“I must not permit your impatience to rob us of our horses before our
journey is half finished.”

Reluctantly Edwards restrained himself, and the Indian, riding a little
in advance, set the pace.

They had not gone far when Natachee pulled up his horse, and springing
from his saddle, held up his hand for his companion to stop.

“What is it?” asked Edwards. “What is the matter?”

The Indian, who was moving here and there as he studied the ground, did
not answer until he was apparently satisfied with his examination of the
tracks.

As he came back to his waiting horse, he said:

“They stopped here and the men dismounted to tighten the cinches. I was
right about the Lizard. Those tracks there are his, and there are the
tracks of his horse. Sonora Jack and his horse are over there. When the
men had attended to their saddles, the Lizard went to look after the
pack mule over there, while Jack went to the horse that stood there,
which must have been the pinto. Now that we have identified the horses
with their riders, we can follow the movements of each in case they
should separate--unless, of course, they should change horses.”

Again the Indian was in his saddle and they went on. At times they rode
at a fast walk, again their sturdy mounts put mile after mile behind
them with the easy swinging lope of the cow horse. Occasionally Natachee
reined in his mount and, bending low from the saddle, studied the trail
carefully, but he never hesitated for more than a moment or two.

At first, after leaving the old road, the trail led them straight west,
but just before they crossed the Bankhead Highway they turned a little
to the south, so as to pass the southern end of the Tortollita range.
And here in the harder ground, and among the rocks, the trail became
more difficult. Also, as Natachee had foreseen, the outlaw had separated
his party; sending the Lizard with the pack mule one way while he with
Marta went another. The Indian, explaining to Edwards what had
happened, held to Nugget’s tracks.

And now, as he proceeded, the outlaw had taken every precaution to throw
any possible pursuer off his trail. Choosing the hardest ground, he had
turned and twisted, doubled back and forth, riding over ledges of rock,
avoiding soft spots of ground, and taking advantage of everything in his
course that would be an obstacle in the way of any one attempting to
follow. At the same time, he had moved steadily toward the west and
south.

Edwards, in dismay, felt that all hope of rescuing Marta was lost. To
his eyes there was no mark to show which way they had gone. But Natachee
smiled.

Dismounting, and giving his bridle rein to his companion, the Indian
went ahead, stooping low at times and moving slowly, again running
confidently at a dog trot. Three times he caused Edwards to wait while
he drew a wide circle and picked up the trail at some point further on.
Where Hugh could see not the slightest mark to show that a living thing
had passed that way, the Indian moved forward with a certainty that was,
to the white man, almost supernatural. A tiny scratch on a rock, a
pebble brushed from its resting place, was enough to mark the way for
the Indian as clearly as if it were a paved street. It was late in the
afternoon when the trail finally drew away from the Tortollitas and
again lay clearly marked in the softer ground of the desert. And here,
presently, Natachee pointed out to Edwards that the tracks of the
Lizard’s horse and the pack mule had again merged with those of the
animals ridden by Sonora Jack and his captive.

The sun had set when Natachee stopped his horse. There was still light
to see the trail but it would last but a few minutes longer. For some
time the Indian seemed lost in contemplation of the scene. Slowly his
eyes swept the vast reaches of desert and the mountain ranges that lay
before them. His companion waited.

At last Natachee said:

“Sonora Jack is going to Mexico. If he were not, he would have gone to
the north of the Tortollitas back there. But Mexico lies there to the
south and this trail is leading almost due west.”

“What can we do?” cried Edwards. “It will be dark in twenty minutes, we
cannot follow the trail in the night.”

“Patience,” returned the Indian, “and listen. The ways by which one may
go through these deserts and mountains are more or less fixed.” Pointing
to the southwest where the ragged sky-line of the Tucson range was sharp
against the glowing sky, he continued:

“The outlaw would not risk going straight south on this side of those
hills because that is the thickly settled valley of the Santa Cruz with
the city of Tucson to bar his way. Do you see, through that gap in the
Tucson range, a domelike peak of another range beyond?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that is Baboquivari. The Baboquivari, the Coyote, the Roskruge,
and the Waterman Mountains are in a line north and south with the Pozo
Verdes at the southern end of the line extending into Mexico. On this
side of those ranges the country is rather well covered by cattle
ranches and the main road to San Fernando, Sasabe and Mexico, and there
is a custom house on the line. I do not think Sonora Jack would go that
way.

“On the other side of that line of mountains lies the thinly settled
Papago Indian Reservation. If this trail here continues its course to
the west, it will pass north of those Waterman Mountains which are at
the northern end of that line of ranges which mark the eastern boundary
of the reservation. The Vaca Hills in the Papago country lie just
beyond. They are surrounded by barren desert. There are no ranches--no
roads. There is no place in all this country more lonely, and there is a
little water there. Sonora Jack could have reached the Vaca Hills by
daybreak this morning. If he spent this day there, he will turn south
from that point and will be making his way to-night through the Papago
Reservation to the Mexican line. I have heard that his old headquarters
were in Mexico, south of the Nariz and Santa Rosa Mountains, which are
on the border.

“But if I am wrong, and he went south on this side of the Baboquivaris,
then he has gone through the Tucson range by the pass at Picture Rocks
and we will find his trail there. Come!”

By midnight, they were at Picture Rocks--a narrow cut through the
Tucson Mountains where the rock walls of the pass are covered with the
strange picture writings of a prehistoric people. At places, the winding
passageway is scarcely wider than the tracks of a wagon, so that it was
not difficult for the Indian, by the light of an improvised torch, to
assure himself that Sonora Jack had not gone that way.

With his customary exclamation, “Good!” the Indian swung into his saddle
and, leaving the Tucson Mountains behind, pushed out into the desert
with the sureness of a sailor steering toward a harbor light. And now,
through the darkness of the night, he set a pace that taxed the
endurance of the horses. The white man followed blindly.

Before they were out of the pass, Hugh had lost all sense of direction.
In the desert, the darkness seemed to close in about them like a wall.
The shadowy form of the Indian, the ghostly shapes of the desert
vegetation, and the weird emptiness of those wide houseless spaces, gave
him a feeling of unreality. Vainly he strained his eyes to glimpse a
light. There was no light. Save for the soft thud of the horses’ feet,
the squeaking of the saddle leathers and the jingle of the bridle
chains, there was no sound. He felt that it must all be a dream from
which presently he would awake. And somewhere under those same cold
stars that looked down with such indifference, Marta, too, was
riding--riding. Where was the outlaw leading her and to what end? Where
was she at that moment? What madness to think that Natachee could ever
find them in that seemingly infinite space.

After a time, which to Hugh seemed an age, they were again riding among
the lower hills of a small desert range. Another half hour and Natachee
stopped. Slipping to the ground and giving his bridle rein to Edwards,
he said:

“We are at the northern end of the Waterman range. If they went to the
Vaca Hills, they came this way. We will pick up their trail at daylight.
There is water not far from here. Wait until I return.”

As noiseless as a shadow, the Indian disappeared.

Hugh Edwards, peering into the darkness, tried to guess which way the
Indian had gone. He listened. On every side the mysteries of the desert
night drew close. The shadowy bulk of the hills against the stars
assumed the shapes of gigantic and awful creatures of some other world.
The smell of the desert--the low sigh of a passing breath of air--the
stillness--the feel of the wide empty spaces touched him with a strange
dread. The wild, weird call of a coyote startled him. Faint and far
away, the call was answered. The lonesome cry of an owl was followed by
the soft swish of unseen wings. Suddenly, as if he had risen from the
ground, Natachee again stood at his horse’s shoulder.

“It is all right,” said the Indian as he mounted, “there is no one at
the water hole. We will camp there until daylight.”

After watering their horses and giving them a feed of grain, the two
men ate a cold lunch and lay down to rest until the morning. Natachee
slept, but his white companion lay with wide-open eyes waiting for the
light.

With the first touch of gray in the sky behind the distant Catalinas,
the Indian awoke. By the time there was light enough to see, they were
in the saddle.

They had not gone far when Natachee reined his horse toward the west and
pointing to the ground said:

“They went here, see? And yonder are the Vaca Hills.”

They were nearing the group of low hills that on every side is
surrounded by unbroken desert when Natachee, with a low exclamation,
suddenly stopped, and, standing in his stirrups, gazed intently ahead.

“What is it?” asked Hugh, trying in vain to see what it was that had
attracted the red man’s attention.

“A horse.”

As he spoke, the Indian slipped from his saddle and motioned the white
man to dismount.

Leading the animals behind a large greasewood bush, Natachee said to his
companion:

“Stay here with the horses and watch.”

Before Hugh could answer, the Indian had slipped away through the
gray-green desert vegetation.

A half hour passed. Hugh Edwards watched until his eyes ached. From
horizon to horizon there was no sign of life. The desert was as still
as a tomb. Then he saw Natachee standing on one of the hills against
the sky. The Indian was signaling Hugh to come.

When the white man joined his companion, the Indian did not reply to his
eager questions, and Hugh wondered at the red man’s grim and scowling
face. Silently, Natachee mounted and started his horse forward.

Presently they rode into a low depression between the hills and Natachee
called Hugh’s attention to the water hole and the place where the outlaw
had made camp. Pointing out that the trail from this camping place led
south, the Indian said:

“They left here as soon as it was dark last night. They are now close to
the border. Sonora Jack will not camp another day on this side of the
line but will push on this morning into Mexico. We will make much better
time to-day than they could have made last night.”

“But that horse--what about that horse you saw?” demanded Hugh.

For a moment, although he stopped, Natachee did not answer. Then, as if
against his will, he said curtly:

“Ride to the top of that ridge there and you will see.”

Wonderingly, Hugh obeyed.

On the farther side of the ridge lay the body of the Lizard.

Not until the following day did Hugh Edwards understand why the red
man’s face was so grim, and why he would not speak of the Lizard’s
death.

Hour after hour the Indian and the white man followed the trail that led
southward through the Papago country. Natachee set the pace, nor did he
once stop or hesitate, for the tracks of the two horses and the pack
mule were clear in the soft ground, and the outlaw had made no attempt
to confuse possible pursuers.

Skirting the northern end of the Comobabi range, and leaving Indian
Oasis well to the east, the trail avoided two small Indian villages that
lie at the foot of the Quijotoas and then swung more to the west.
Natachee, who for three hours had not spoken, pointed to a group of
mountains miles ahead.

“The Santa Rosa and the Nariz Mountains on the Mexican line. Sonora Jack
is making for the headquarters of his old outlaw band.”

As mile after mile passed in steady, relentless succession, and the
hours went by with no relief from the monotonous pound and swing of the
horses’ feet, Hugh Edwards found reason to be grateful for the past
months of heavy labor that had toughened his muscles and hardened his
body for this test of physical endurance. The sun rode in a sky that
held no relieving cloud. In the wide basin, rimmed by desert mountains
where no trees grew, there was not a shadow to rest his aching eyes. The
smell of the sweating horses and the odor of warm, wet saddle leather
was in every breath he drew. His lips were parched and cracked, his eyes
smarted, his skin was grimy with dust, his clothing damp and sticky with
perspiration. He felt that he had been riding for ages. He grimly set
his will to ride on and on and on.

It was late in the afternoon when Natachee turned aside from the trail
and rode toward a little desert hill near-by. When Edwards, following,
asked the reason, Natachee answered:

“We are not far from the border. Sonora Jack must have friends in this
neighborhood or he would not have come so far west before crossing into
Mexico.”

Dismounting, the two men climbed to the top of the hill, and from that
elevation scanned the surrounding country. When Natachee was satisfied,
they returned to their horses and rode on. But now the Indian held to
the trail only at the intervals necessary to assure himself of the
general bearing of the outlaw’s course. At every opportunity he ascended
some high point from which he could survey the country into which the
trail was leading them. After two hours of this they were rewarded by
the sight of a small adobe house and corral, a mile, perhaps, from where
they stood.

As Natachee pointed to the place he said:

“That is not Indian. The Papago Reservation line, which follows the
international boundary for so many miles, turns north at the foot of the
Nariz Hills yonder and then after a few miles turns west again to the
Santa Rosa Mountains over there. That little ranch is not on the Indian
Reservation. It cannot be far from the border. It looks Mexican, and the
outlaw’s trail leads directly toward it.”

At the possibility suggested by the Indian’s words, Hugh Edwards cried:

“Do you think--are they--is Marta there?”

Natachee shook his head.

“No, I think the outlaw would take her into Mexico, but whoever lives
there, they are Sonora Jack’s friends or he would avoid the place.”

Then with his eyes on his white companion’s face, the Indian said
slowly:

“Don’t you remember the story you told me--how the old prospectors found
the little girl?”

“Yes,” said Edwards, not at first seeing the connection.

“Well,” continued Natachee, “have you forgotten that Thad and Bob were
coming in from the Santa Rosa Mountains, and that they found the child
at a Mexican Ranch near the border?”

Hugh Edwards, fully aroused now, was trembling with emotion. He gazed at
the little ranch house in the distance as if fascinated. Then, without a
word, he went hurriedly down the hill to his horse.

Natachee was beside him, and, as they mounted, the Indian spoke.

“We must be careful, friend, it will not do to show ourselves here. If I
am not mistaken, we will pick up the trail again beyond that ranch on
the south.”

Riding into the nearest opening between the hills of the Nariz range,
the Indian again turned westward, thus leaving the ranch well to the
north. At the western end of the range they found the outlaw’s trail
leading straight south into Mexico.

When the sun went down, Natachee and Edwards, lying in the greasewood
and mesquite on top of a low ridge a few miles south of the
international boundary line, looked down upon the buildings and corrals
of a Mexican Ranch.

The nearest corral was not more than a quarter of a mile distant. The
fence of a small pasture which lay between them and the corrals was less
than a hundred yards away. In this pasture, within a stone’s throw of
where the white man and the Indian lay, the pinto horse Nugget was
feeding quietly with another horse and a mule.




CHAPTER XXVIII

THE OUTLAWS

     In reality, the ranch was a general meeting place, or station, for
     cattle rustlers, smugglers, and their kind, from both sides of the
     border.


All through these lonely months following the disappearance of Hugh
Edwards, Marta Hillgrove had lived in the firm conviction that the man
she loved would come again. She had nothing to justify her belief. She
could not understand why, if he loved her, he had left no message--no
word of hope. But her woman instinct had persistently swept aside all
the opposing facts and held her to the truth which her heart knew. She
was so sure of Hugh Edwards’ love that nothing could shake her faith in
him or cause her to doubt that he would come again to claim her. With
Saint Jimmy’s help she had endured the long days when there had been no
word from the man to whom she had given, without reserve, the wealth of
her first woman love.

Marta never dreamed what it cost Saint Jimmy to help her. She would
never know. Many, many times Saint Jimmy had told himself that the girl
must never know how hard it was for him to help her through those weeks
of her waiting for Hugh Edwards.

Then, at last, Natachee had come with the explanation of Hugh’s silence,
the story of the hunted man’s innocence of the crime for which he had
been imprisoned, together with the promises of the freedom and happiness
that was now, through the gold her lover had found, so near at hand for
them both.

Every moment of that day her heart had sung:

“To-morrow Hugh is coming. To-morrow he is coming.” The hours were
filled with rosy visions of the days, that were now so near, when she
would be with him, with no fear of another separation. Again and again
she assured herself that it was all true--that it was not another of her
dreams. Hugh _had_ found the gold that meant freedom for him, and
happiness for them both. The Pardners, when they had talked with Saint
Jimmy, were willing to do their part in carrying out the plan, as they
would have been willing to submit to any hardship to insure the
happiness of their daughter. Saint Jimmy was arranging everything.
“To-morrow, to-morrow, Hugh would come.”

There had been a long talk with her two fathers that evening, and when
at last they had said good-night, the girl had not found it easy to
sleep. She was too excited, too thrilled with her happiness. Her mind
was too active with thoughts of what the morning would bring. She heard
the noise at the barn and wondered what mischief Nugget was in. At the
same moment she heard the Pardners stirring in their room, and knew that
they too had been disturbed by the noise that Nugget was making. The
door of her room was open and she could hear Bob muttering about the
pinto as he passed through the living room on his way out to the barn.

The noise at the barn ceased. She waited, listening for Bob’s return.

There was the sound of steps in the kitchen and some one entered the
living room. Thad moved in his room. She caught a whispered word outside
her door. It was not Bob. What did it mean? Sitting up in her bed, she
listened.

Suddenly all was confusion. Thad’s voice rang out, challenging the
intruders. There was a trampling rush of feet toward her door--a tangle
of straining, writhing figures--a spurt of fire accompanied by the
deafening report of a gun--a cry of pain--a dull, sickening blow--a
moaning voice: “Hay mamacita de me vido”--a dreadful silence.

Then another voice spoke sharply in Mexican, followed by a groaning
reply; and then a man stood beside her bed telling her that she must
prepare to go with him and assuring her that no harm should come to her
if she was obedient and made no effort to escape. Dumb with terror, the
girl started to dress and Sonora Jack went back to the wounded Mexican.
Marta heard him call to the Lizard to bring up the horses and the pack
mule, and to saddle the pinto. But when the outlaw went again to the
girl he found her kneeling beside Thad, overcome with grief.

Lifting her to her feet, Sonora Jack said sternly:

“Come, this is no good! The old man, he will be all right when he wake
up. You do what I say an’ make yourself ready to ride your own horse
with me, or I finish him an’ pack you on a mule.”

He drew a knife and stooped over the old prospector.

With a cry, Marta sprang to do his bidding.

       *       *       *       *       *

In those first hours of her enforced ride in the night with Sonora Jack
and the Lizard, the girl was still too bewildered and frightened to
think clearly. But when the outlaw ordered the Lizard to take the pack
mule and go one way, while he with Marta went another, in order to
confuse any possible pursuers, she caught, from her captors’ words and
actions, a gleam of hope. Hugh Edwards and Natachee would arrive at her
home in the morning. They would not be long in setting out to find her.
With this hope, and the assurance from the outlaws’ manner toward her
that she was in no immediate personal danger, the girl’s courage
returned and she was able to consider her situation with some degree of
calmness. She did not know that Bob had been killed. But certainly he
had not returned after being called from the house by that noise at the
barn; nor had she heard his voice. This, together with the fact that
neither Sonora Jack nor the Lizard had mentioned the old prospector or
referred to him in any way, led her to believe that he was dead. She
could not know how seriously Thad was hurt. Try as she might, she could
find no hint of the outlaw’s purpose in taking her away. When the
Lizard would have talked to her, Sonora Jack ordered him, curtly, to
keep his mouth shut and look after the pack mule.

Morning came and they were in the Vaca Hills. When Sonora Jack and the
Lizard had made camp, and breakfast was over, the outlaw ordered the
girl to rest and sleep because there was a long hard ride before her and
she would need all her strength. Then, telling the Lizard that he would
call him later to take his turn watching for any one following on their
trail, Sonora Jack went to the top of a hill, from which he could
overlook the country to the east.

No sooner had his leader left the camp than the Lizard approached Marta.

With a leering grin twisting his ratlike features, he said:

“You’re a-ridin’ with me after all, ain’t ye?”

The girl, making no effort to hide her disgust, did not answer.

“Still a-feelin’ high an’ mighty, be ye? Wal, you’d best be a-gettin’
over hit. You’re a long way from th’ Cañada del Oro right now an’ you’re
a-goin’ a heap further.”

Marta forced herself to ask calmly:

“Do you know where we are going?”

The Lizard looked back at the hill toward which the outlaw had gone.

“I know whar Sonora Jack _says_ we’re a-goin’--whether we go er not
depends on you.”

“What do you mean?” faltered Marta.

“What do ye reckon I’m here a-mixin’ up in this fer?” retorted the
Lizard.

“I--I am sure I don’t know.”

“Oh, ye don’t, don’t ye? Can’t even make a guess, heh? Wal, I’ll tell
ye, hit’s like this: Sonora Jack, he’s a-aimin’ t’ carry ye into Mexico.
He ’lows he knows whar ther’s a feller what’ll be glad t’ pay an
almighty fancy price fer a likely lookin’ gal like you an’ he’s goin’ t’
sell ye. Onct he’s south of th’ border, he kin work it easy enough. He’s
a-takin’ good care of ye ’cause he’s got t’ deliver ye in first-class
shape. Onct yer delivered an’ th’ other feller has paid Jack’s
price--wal, I reckon you’ll be made t’ earn yer livin’ all right, an’
pay right smart on yer owner’s investment besides.”

The explanation of the outlaw’s purpose in abducting her was so
plausible that Marta was stricken with horror.

After a moment the Lizard spoke again, emphasizing his words with
significant care.

“That’s what Jack _thinks_ he’s a-goin’ t’ do. Jist like he _thinks_ I
come along t’ help him.”

The girl caught the fellow’s suggestion with desperate eagerness.

“But you won’t help him--you--you couldn’t do such a thing. You came to
save me.”

Then, as she saw the expression of the Lizard’s face, her voice broke
and she faltered:

“That is what you mean, isn’t it?”

“What I mean depends on you. When Sonora Jack wanted me t’ come along
an’ help him git you into Mexico, I seen th’ chanct I been a long time
waitin’ fer. Hit’d be plumb easy t’ git shet of that half-breed Mex
anywhere this side of th’ line. With th’ outfit we got, you an’ me could
make hit on west t’ Yuma an’ California easy.”

The girl was watching him as if she were under a spell. The look in his
shifty eyes, the expression of his loose mouth fascinated her.

“But,” he added deliberately, “you’ll have t’ go as my woman.”

With a low cry, the girl hid her face:

“No! no!! no!!!”

“You kin take your choice. I’ll help Sonora Jack sell ye t’ that feller
in Mexico er ye kin go with me.”

Then the girl’s overstrained nerves gave way. Springing to her feet, she
broke into wild laughter.

The hysterical merriment with which she received his proposal maddened
the Lizard beyond reason:

“Hit’s funny, ain’t hit?” he snarled. “I’ve allus been funny t’ you--ye
ain’t never done nothin’ but laugh at me. But I done made up my mind a
long time ago that I’d have ye some day--an’ now--whether ye want t’ go
with me er not--“ he sprang forward and caught her in his arms.

The girl screamed.

A moment later the Lizard was caught by a heavy hand and whirled twenty
feet away. As he recovered his balance and snatched at the gun on his
hip, Sonora Jack said sharply:

“Drop it!”

The Lizard, with his eyes fixed on the outlaw’s steady weapon, raised
his empty hands.

When Sonora Jack, with the coolness of his long experience, had disarmed
his companion, he turned to the girl.

“I’m sorry for this, Señorita. I have said that with me you would be all
right. I don’t want you should be scared like this. Tell me, please,
what did this hombre say?”

“It is nothing,” stammered the girl.

“You don’t cry loud like that for nothin’,” returned the outlaw. “You
don’t get scared so for nothin’.”

For some time the girl, by refusing to answer or by giving evasive
answers to his questions, tried to keep from telling him what the Lizard
had proposed. But Sonora Jack, with persistent and cunning questions,
with adroit suggestions and bold assertions, drew from her, little by
little, the truth.

Then the outlaw faced the cringing Lizard.

“So you think you play a game with Sonora Jack, heh? Don’t I tell you
how the Señorita is worth so much gold to me that she must be guarded
with great care? What am I goin’ to do now? You’re traitor to me. I no
can trust you this much while I’m gone such a little way to watch the
trail. ’Fore we get to the border there’s goin’ to be plenty chances for
you to betray me. I ain’t goin’ to be safe with you, even in Mexico.
Come--the Señorita must not again be scared. Come! You an’ me we take a
little walk over there behind that hill.”

Grasping the Lizard’s arm, he forced the frightened creature to
accompany him.

The terrified girl, watching, saw them disappear over the low ridge.

Trembling, she listened.

There was no sound.

Presently she saw the outlaw coming back over the hill.

Sonora Jack was alone.

Leisurely he approached, and bowing low, said gently:

“I’m sorry, Señorita, you got so scared. It ain’t goin’ to be so no
more.”

All night they rode and in the gray light of the early morning came to
that small adobe ranch house near the Mexican border.

Save for a half-starved dog that slunk from sight behind the house as
they approached, there seemed to be no life about the place. But when
Sonora Jack, riding to within a few feet of the door, shouted, “Buenos
dias, madre,” the door opened and an old Mexican appeared. He greeted
the outlaw with a cordial welcome and came forward to take the horses.
At the same moment an ancient crone hobbled from the house.

“Hijo mio! Gracias a Dios que volviste sin novedad,” she cried. “My son!
Thanks to God you have returned without mishap.”

“Si, madre, sin novedad--Yes, mother, without mishap.”

“You found the Mine with the Door of Iron?”

“No, Mother, but I found something else that will bring much gold to
me.”

He turned toward Marta and bade the girl dismount.

To the old man he said:

“We must eat and go on over the line quickly. Feed and water the animals
but do not remove the saddles.”

Then leading Marta into the house, he took her to a little room and told
her to lie down and rest until their breakfast was ready, and left her.

When she was alone, the girl looked about with wondering interest. She
had felt, even as they were approaching the house, that there was
something strangely familiar about the place. She seemed to have been
there before or else to have seen it all in some dream. That corral--the
well--the water trough--the adobe building--the hard-beaten yard--the
pile of mesquite wood--the heap of old tin cans and rubbish. Surely, she
had seen it all before. The interior of the house, too, was familiar in
every detail. The bed upon which she was lying--the old rawhide bottom
chairs--the cracked mirror on the wall and that print of the Holy
Family. How strange it all was! She was certain that once before she had
been shut in that room, and, lying on that bed, had heard those voices
talking in Mexican on the other side of that door.

In her wanderings with the old prospectors, Marta had picked up enough
of the Mexican language to understand a little of the conversation. She
learned that the old woman was Sonora Jack’s mother. As she listened
now, she gathered that they were discussing her. She caught the words
prospectors, Cañada del Oro, and several times she heard, little girl,
while the old woman and the man who had come in after caring for the
animals exclaimed with astonishment. In a flash, the meaning of it all
came to her. She was the little girl. This was the place from which the
Pardners had taken her.

But try as she might, she could not bring back that childhood experience
with any degree of clearness. It was a hazy fragment--a memory. She
could not recall how she was first brought to that place, nor what her
relationship to those people had been. If only Hugh and Natachee would
come. If only they could be here now. Perhaps--perhaps, they could force
these people to tell what they knew about her.

At breakfast, the old woman and the man treated Marta with great
deference. Again and again, they assured her in Mexican and broken
English that she must not be frightened, that she would come to no harm
if she obeyed Sonora Jack. When, with Sonora Jack, she rode away to the
south, they watched until she passed from sight.

They had ridden two or three hours when the outlaw said:

“Señorita, we goin’ come now to the end of our ride, for a little time.
This is Mexico. The line is ten mile back. Over them hills ahead is a
rancho. We goin’ stop there. It is not so good place as I like for you,
but it is best I can do for now. Many men are goin’ to be
there--vaqueros--all kinds--bad hombres. All the time they come an’ go.
You no want to be scared, ’cause me--I’m goin’ take good care of you. It
is best if we make like you was my wife.”

When the girl cried out with fear and he saw the horror in her eyes he
hastened to explain:

“Señorita, you mistake--it is only that we make believe you are my wife.
You sabe? If I take you to that place as Señorita Hillgrove, you goin’
to be in much danger. I can fight them, yes--they know that I can fight,
but--“ he shrugged his shoulders, then: “Señora Richard would be safe,
sure. Nobody is goin’ make insult to the wife of Sonora Jack. They know
for that Sonora Jack would sure kill.”

When Marta would not, or more literally _could_ not, agree, the outlaw
impatiently spurred his horse forward.

“All right, Señorita, we goin’ to see. I’m goin’ to tell that you are my
wife. I promise it is only a make-believe. If you goin’ to tell it is
not so--that you are not Señora Richards--then I can’t help what comes
next.”

In a few minutes they were at the ranch. The house was a long,
flat-topped, adobe building with several rooms opening on to a long
ramada. In reality, the ranch was a general meeting place, or station,
for cattle rustlers, smugglers and their kind from both sides of the
border.

There were eight or ten men gathered in a group in front of the house as
the outlaw and his prisoner arrived. All of them knew Sonora Jack, and,
with two or three exceptions, greeted him cordially. When the outlaw
told them that his wife was ill from the long ride and must at once
retire, Marta made no protest. Frightened as she was at the villainous
company, worn with the nervous strain and the physical hardship of her
journey, the poor girl’s appearance made Sonora Jack’s statement that
she was ill more plausible.

A room at the end of the building was soon made ready by a mozo who
appeared in answer to a call from one of the men. The pack mule was
relieved of his burden and the things taken inside. The room was rather
large, with two doors--one opening on to the ramada in front and one
connecting the apartment with another. Two windows supplied plenty of
fresh air, and the place was fairly well furnished as a bedroom.
Evidently it was the best apartment that the establishment afforded.

When the mozo was gone and the door was shut, Sonora Jack whispered:

“You done all right, Señorita. Now you goin’ be safe for sure.
Everything goin’ be fine. You make like you too sick to get out of bed.
Me, I bring what you want to eat, myself.” He smiled. “I goin’ tell them
hombres a pretty story ’bout my poor Señora who is so sick. Then I’m
goin’ play cards with them. All night we play an’ you will not be
scared. _Adios_, Señorita, don’t you be scared, rest an’ sleep.”

Marta threw herself on the bed and, in spite of her situation, fell
into a deep sleep. When Sonora Jack brought her dinner, she awoke and,
realizing that she must keep her strength for what might come, forced
herself to eat. Then once more she slept.

When she was again awakened, it was dark. She could not guess the time.
A strip of light shone under the door from that next room and she could
hear the men who were drinking and gambling.

At times, their voices were raised in angry dispute or in boisterous
laughter; again, there was only the slap-slap of cards as they were
thrown on the table with the accompanying thud-thud of heavy hands, the
click of bottle necks against glasses, the scuffling sound of a boot
heel, the jingle of a spur, or the scrape of a chair on the rough floor.
Then a drunken yell of exultation would ring out, accompanied by a heavy
grumbling undertone.

The girl, trembling with fear, listened and waited. Would Sonora Jack
keep his promise? Was the incentive, which led him to protect her from
even himself, strong enough to endure when he had become inflamed by
drink?

Slowly the terrible hours passed. It must be nearly midnight. The voices
of the men in the next room were becoming louder, more quarrelsome and
reckless. Suddenly the frightened girl felt, rather than heard, that
front door opening. In the dim light she saw it swing slowly, inch by
inch.

She held her breath. She wanted to scream but she dared not. The door
swung a little farther and she could see the stars through the opening.
Then a dark form slipped into the room as soundless as a shadow.
Noiselessly the door was closed.

Cold with horror, unable to move a muscle, the girl cowered on the bed.

The shadowy form moved toward her. It stopped--then came a low whisper.

“Miss Hillgrove, do not be frightened, be very still. I, Natachee, have
come for you.”




CHAPTER XXIX

THE RESCUE

     And Marta gave a low cry of delight when, far away to the
     northeast, they saw the blue heights of the Santa Catalinas.


For a moment Marta could not speak. Then in spite of herself she gave a
low cry of joy which brought another whispered warning from the Indian.

Moving closer, he said:

“Hugh Edwards is waiting with the horses. We have the pinto and your
saddle but I fear you must leave everything else. Not all the men are in
there gambling and drinking. There are three in front of the house at
the farther end of the ramada. They are sitting with their backs toward
your door so I was able to get in. I dared not wait longer because, from
their talk, they are expecting some one to come any minute. Then the
party in the next room will break up and it will be too late for us to
move. We must hurry.”

“I am ready,” whispered the girl.

“You will be brave and do exactly what I say?”

“Yes.”

“Good!--Come.”

There was a burst of angry voices in the next room. The Indian waited
until he was satisfied that the gamblers were continuing their play,
then, leading Marta to the window in the end of the building toward the
west, he slipped through, and from the outside helped the girl to
follow.

At that moment they heard the sound of feet on the hard earth floor of
the ramada. Some one was coming toward that end of the house. With his
lips to the girl’s ear, Natachee bade her lie down. She obeyed
instantly, and the Indian, knife in hand, crept to the corner of the
building, toward which the sound was approaching, where he stood,
flattened against the wall.

The man who was coming along the front of the house walked leisurely to
the end of the ramada and stood almost within reach of the Indian’s
hand, looking out toward the west and toward the corrals. Natachee was
as motionless as the wall against which he stood. Had the fellow gone a
step farther or turned his head to look past the corner of the building,
he would have died that same instant. Presently he turned and started
back toward his companions, calling to them in Mexican as he did so:

“It is strange that they are so late. They should have been here an hour
ago.”

In a flash Natachee was again at Marta’s side. Lifting her to her feet,
he whispered:

“Follow me and do as I do.”

A hundred feet away, a hollow in the uneven ground made a deeper shadow.
Lying prone, the Indian crawled to the little depression. The girl
followed close behind. For a moment they lay side by side in the
hollow, then the Indian rose and stooping low ran for the dark mass of a
mesquite tree some fifty yards farther on.

Again Marta imitated his movements.

“Good!” whispered the Indian as she crouched, breathless, beside him.
“But from here on there are too many dry sticks and things for you to
stumble over and we must go swiftly.”

Before she realized his purpose, he had caught her up in his arms, and
keeping the tree between them and the house, was running swift and
silent as a wolf through the brush. When they were at a safe distance,
the Indian circled to the right and so gained the shelter of the corral
fence, with the corral which was north of the house between them and the
ramada where the three men were still sitting. Putting the girl down, he
whispered:

“If you should make any noise now, they will think it is the horses, but
be careful.”

Following the back fence of the corral, they were soon some distance
east of the house. Then, still keeping the fences between them and the
three men on the ramada, Natachee led the way toward a mesquite thicket
in a sandy wash between two low ridges where Hugh was waiting with the
horses.

There was no time for greetings. Scarcely had they gained their saddles
when a yell came from the house, and in the light that streamed from the
open door of the room where the gamblers had been carousing, they could
see the dark forms of the men gather in answer to the alarm. Clearly
they heard the voice of Sonora Jack crying:

“Se fue la muchacha! Los caballos! A seguir la!--The girl is gone! The
horses! To follow her!”

When the Indian made no move to go, but sat calmly watching the lights
and listening to the voices of the outlaws as they called to one another
while saddling their horses, Edwards said impatiently:

“Come, Natachee, we are losing valuable time here. If we go now, we will
have a good start ahead of them.”

“No,” returned the Indian. “That is exactly what they expect us to do
and their horses are much faster and fresher than ours. They think that
we are making for the United States by the most direct route, which is
there due north between those two mountain ranges--the Santa Rosas to
the left and the Nariz to the east. They will not waste time trying to
find our trail in the darkness but will try to outride us to the line
and, by scattering, to cover the country so as to prevent us from
crossing. Be patient and you will see.”

Very soon the Indian’s judgment was proved sound. The outlaws dashed
away as fast as their horses could run toward that gap in the mountains
through which Sonora Jack had brought Marta the day before. When the
last rider was gone and the rolling thunder of the horses’ feet had died
away in the darkness, Natachee spoke again.

“Good; now we will go. When the day comes, we must be on the northern
side of the Nariz Mountains and a little to the east of where Edwards
and I struck the hills yesterday. As we start behind the outlaws, we
need not fear pursuit, at least until daybreak.”

For two or three miles the Indian followed the northern course taken by
the outlaws, then, turning aside from the broad, well-traveled trail, he
led the way at a leisurely but steady pace to the northeast. Another
hour and they were well into the Nariz hills. By daylight they were on
the northern side of the range--in the United States.

Leaving their horses, they climbed to a point from which they could look
out over the wide plains of the Papago Reservation, with its scattered
groups of hills and small mountain ranges bounded by the mighty bulwark
of the Baboquivaris and the Coyotes on the east and by the Santa Rosa
and Gunsight Mountains on the west. And Marta gave a low cry of delight
when, far away to the northeast, they saw the blue heights of the Santa
Catalinas lifting boldly into the morning sky.

For some time the Indian scanned the country at the foot of the hills
where they stood. There was not a living creature moving within range of
his vision. With a smile, Natachee turned to his companions and pointing
to the west, said:

“Sonora Jack and his friends are very busy looking for us over there
between these hills and the Santa Rosas yonder.”

“Thanks to you, Natachee,” the girl answered with deep feeling.

As if he had not heard, the Indian pointed more to the north and
continued:

“That smoke which you see over there is from a little ranch--Mexican, I
think--toward which we trailed you and Sonora Jack yesterday. Did you
stop there?”

Marta told them briefly of her experience--of the old Mexican woman who
was evidently Sonora Jack’s mother, and of her conviction that it was
from those people that the old prospectors had taken her when she was a
little girl.

Hugh Edwards heard her story with many exclamations, comments and
questions. The Indian, who continued to scan the country before them
with ceaseless vigilance, listened without a word.

When Marta had finished her story, Natachee said:

“It is time we were moving, friends. Sonora Jack will be on our trail.
When he has made sure that we did not take the course he thought we
would take, he will ride east along the Mexico side of this range until
he picks up our trail; for he will know that we would not go into the
Santa Rosa Mountains. I think he will bring with him only one or two
men, because he will not wish to share the profit of his venture with so
many when one or two are all that he needs, now that it is no longer a
question of heading us off before we cross the border. There would be a
greater risk, too, with a large company--in the United States. He will
know that there are only three of us and will plan to follow and pick
us off at a safe distance when the opportunity offers or attack us
to-night. When he has again taken his prisoner, he can easily rid
himself of one or two helpers as he disposed of the Lizard.”

A quarter of a mile from where they had left their horses, the low
ridge, beyond which lay the open country, was broken by a narrow, sandy
wash. One side of this natural gateway of these hills is an irregular
cliff some twenty feet in height. The Indian, leading the way straight
to this opening, passed close under the cliff and, leaving the hills
behind, set their course straight toward the distant Santa Catalinas.

They had ridden but a short way when the Indian again halted. Pointing
to a peak in the northern end of the Baboquivaris, he said to Hugh:

“That is Kits Peak. If you ride toward it, you will come to Indian
Oasis. There is a store there where you can water and feed your horses
and purchase something to eat for yourselves. I am going back to wait
for Sonora Jack. I will overtake you later.”

He was turning his horse to ride away, when Edwards cried:

“Wait a minute. Do you mean that you are going back to meet those
outlaws?”

“Sonora Jack must be stopped,” returned the Indian.

“All right,” agreed Hugh, “but Sonora Jack is not alone. Do you think I
am going to ride on and leave you to face those fellows single-handed?”

“You faced three of them single-handed for me. I, Natachee, do not
forget.”

“But that was different,” argued Edwards. “There were several things in
my favor. No--no, Natachee, it won’t do. When you meet those fellows who
are following our trail, I must be there to do my little bit with you.”

“But Miss Hillgrove,” said the Indian.

Marta spoke quickly. “Hugh is right, Natachee.”

The Indian yielded.

“Come, then, we must not delay longer, or it will be too late.”

Swinging in a wide circle to the right, Natachee led the way swiftly
back to a point at the foot of the ridge, a short distance east of that
rocky gateway. They dismounted at a spot that was well hidden and the
Indian, directing Marta to stay with the horses and telling Edwards to
follow, ran quickly along the ridge to the top of the cliff directly
above the tracks they had made when first leaving the hills.

When he had assured himself that there was no one in sight following
their trail, the Indian stood before his companion and Hugh knew that it
was not the Natachee of the schools that was about to speak. Drawing
himself up proudly, the red man said:

“Hugh Edwards, listen--seven days ago this stealer of women, Sonora
Jack, and his companions, crawled like three snakes into Natachee’s hut.
Hiding, they struck, when Natachee alone crossed the threshold of his
home. In the night, they bound the Indian to a rock, and but for you
would have put live coals from their fire on his naked breast. One of
the three who did that thing is dying in the Cañon of Gold--is even now,
perhaps, dead, but I, Natachee, did not strike him. The body of another
is over there in the Vaca Hills. He did not die by the hand of the
Indian he had trapped. Sonora Jack alone is left. He is left for me. Do
you understand?”

The white man, remembering the Indian’s face and manner when he had
found the Lizard’s body, understood. Slowly--reluctantly, he said:

“This is your affair, Natachee, have it your own way.”

They had not waited long when Natachee saw Sonora Jack and a Mexican
riding down through the hills. The Indian, fitting an arrow to his bow,
said to his companion:

“When I give the word, stand up and cover Sonora Jack with your rifle.”

With their eyes on the tracks they were following, the outlaws rode
swiftly toward the rocks where Natachee and Edwards were waiting. Sonora
Jack was a little in advance. They were just past the cliff when the
Mexican, with a cry, tumbled from his saddle. Sonora Jack pulled his
horse up sharply and whirled about to see what had happened. At the
moment he caught sight of the arrow in the body of his fallen companion,
Natachee’s voice rang out from the rock above with the familiar command:
“Put up your hands.”

And looking up, the outlaw saw the Indian with another arrow drawn to
its head, and the white man with his menacing rifle.

While Edwards covered the trapped outlaw, the Indian relieved their
captive of his guns and ordered him to dismount. Then Natachee motioned
for Edwards to lower his rifle and stood face to face with Sonora Jack.
From his position on the rocks, Hugh Edwards looked down upon them with
intense interest.

At last the red man spoke.

“The snake that crawled into Natachee’s hut to strike when the Indian
was not looking is caught. One of his brother snakes he left to die in
the home he robbed. Another, he killed with his own hand. It is not well
that even one of the three snakes that hid in Natachee’s hut should
remain alive. When Sonora Jack, with the help of his two brother snakes,
had bound Natachee to a rock, Sonora Jack was very brave. He was so
brave that he dared even to strike the helpless Indian. Now, he shall
strike the Indian again--if he can.

“When the snake, Sonora Jack, would have put his coals of fire on the
naked breast of the Indian, he required the help of two others. If I,
Natachee, could not alone kill a snake, I would die of shame. The one
who frightened Sonora Jack and his brave friends so that they ran like
rabbits into the brush is here. But Natachee is not bound to a rock now.
Sonora Jack need not fear the one from whom he and his brothers ran in
such haste. Hugh Edwards will not point his rifle toward the snake that
I, Natachee, will kill.

“Sonora Jack boasted that with live coals of fire he would burn the
heart out of Natachee’s breast. There is no fire here, but here is a
knife. Sonora Jack also has a knife. Let the snake, who was so brave
with his two brother snakes when they hid in Natachee’s hut and bound
the Indian to a rock, keep his heart from the knife of the Indian
now--if he can.”

The two men were by no means unevenly matched in stature or in strength.
Both were men whose muscles had been hardened by their active lives in
the desert and the mountains. Both were skilled in the use of the knife
as a weapon. Sonora Jack fought with the desperate fury of a cornered
animal. The Indian, cool and calculating, seemed in no haste to finish
that which in his savage pride he had set himself to accomplish. So
swiftly did the duelists change positions, so closely were they locked
together as they wheeled and twisted in their struggles, that the white
man, who was trembling with tense excitement, could not have used his
rifle if he would. At his repeated failures to touch the Indian with his
knife, the outlaw lost, more and more, his self-control, until he was
fighting with reckless and ungoverned madness. Natachee, wary and
collected, smiled grimly as he saw the fear in the straining face of his
enemy.

Then twice, in quick succession, the point of the Indian’s knife reached
the outlaw’s breast but with no effect. Edwards gasped in dismay as he
saw the baffled look which came into Natachee’s face. Again the Indian,
with all the strength of his arm, drove his weapon at the outlaw’s heart
and again Sonora Jack was unharmed. Suddenly the Indian changed his
method of attack. To Edwards, the duel seemed to become a wrestling
match. For a moment they struggled, locked in each other’s arms, their
limbs entwined, writhing and straining. Then they fell, and to Edwards’
horror, the Indian was under the outlaw. But the next instant, while
Sonora Jack was struggling to free his knife arm for a death blow, the
Indian, hugging his antagonist close, forced his weapon between Sonora
Jack’s shoulders.

The muscles of the outlaw relaxed--his body became limp. Natachee rolled
to one side and leaped to his feet. As if he had forgotten the solitary
witness of the combat, the Indian calmly recovered his knife and stood
looking down at the man who was already dead.

Sick with horror of the thing he had been forced to witness, Hugh
Edwards called to the Indian:

“Come, Natachee, for God’s sake let’s get away from here.”

“The snake that crawled into Natachee’s hut is dead,” returned the
Indian. “The stealer of women will not again steal the woman Hugh
Edwards loves.”

Hugh was already starting back to the place where they had left Marta.
When he noticed that the Indian was not following, he paused to call
again:

“Aren’t you coming?”

“Go on,” returned Natachee, “I will join you in a moment.”

And Hugh Edwards, from where he now stood, could not see that Natachee
was examining the body of the outlaw to learn why the point of his knife
had three times been kept from Sonora Jack’s breast.

When Hugh reached Marta, the Indian was just behind him. To the girl,
Natachee said simply:

“You can ride home in peace now. There is no one to follow our trail.
Sonora Jack will never come for you again.”

And Marta asked no questions.

On the homeward journey, Natachee did not follow the course they had
come, but took a more direct route. Near Indian Oasis they stopped,
while Natachee went to the store to purchase food. When they camped for
the night, Marta would let them rest only an hour or two, insisting that
she must push on.

In the excitement and dangers of that first night, there had been no
opportunity for Hugh Edwards to speak to Marta of his love. And now, as
the hours of their long, trying journey passed, he still did not speak.
There really was no need for him to speak--they both knew so well. The
girl was so distressed by her anxiety for Thad and by her grief over
Bob’s death and so worn by her terrible experience, that Hugh could not
bring himself to talk of the plans that meant so much to him.

When they were safely back in the Cañon of Gold and Marta was
rested--when she had found comfort and strength in Mother Burton’s arms,
then he would tell her his love and ask her to go with him to a place of
freedom and happiness.




CHAPTER XXX

PARDNERS STILL

     Every day he spent the greater part of his time under the mesquite
     trees with Bob, and in the night, they would hear him going out “to
     see,” as he said, “if his pardner was all right.”


In the Cañada del Oro, Doctor Burton and his mother watched beside the
old prospector and the wounded Mexican.

The man who had been so heartlessly abandoned by his outlaw leader did
not speak; but his eyes, like the eyes of a wounded animal, followed
every movement of Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton. But as the days and
nights of suffering passed, and he received nothing but the gentlest and
most attentive care from the two good Samaritans into whose hands he had
fallen, the expression of suspicion and fear which had at first marked
his every glance gave way to a look of wondering and pathetic gratitude.

It was late in the afternoon of that first day following the tragedy,
when Thad regained consciousness. Saint Jimmy, who was at the bedside
when the sturdy old prospector looked up at him with a smile of
recognition, said cheerfully:

“Good morning, neighbor. How are you? Had a good sleep?”

There was the suggestion of a twinkle in those faded blue eyes as Thad
returned:

“There ain’t no need for you to pretend none with me, Doc. I come to,
quite a spell back. Got a peek at you, though, first thing when you
weren’t lookin’ an’ I jest naterally shut my eyes again quick. I been
layin’ here, figgerin’ things out. Got ’em about figgered, I reckon.”
His leathery, wrinkled, old face twisted in a grimace of pain and his
gray lips quivered as he added: “They got my gal, didn’t they?”

Saint Jimmy returned gravely:

“You must be careful not to excite yourself, Thad. You have had a
dangerous injury.”

“Holy Cats! You don’t need to think this is the first time I ever been
knocked out. My old head is tougher than you know. You don’t need to
worry about me gettin’ rattled neither. I tell you I know what happened
up to the time that half Mex devil hit me with his gun. I know they must
a-got her or she would a-been settin’ right here, certain sure--tell
me.”

“Yes, they took her away, but Hugh Edwards and Natachee are on their
trail.”

“What time did the boys start after them?”

“About noon.”

“Good enough. They won’t throw the Injun off, an’ him an’ Hugh will be
able to handle them if they ain’t too many.”

“There are only two with Marta--Sonora Jack and the Lizard.”

“The Lizard, you say? Is he in on this deal too?”

“Yes.”

“Huh, I always knowed he’d do some real meanness if he ever worked up
nerve enough. That made three of them, then?”

“Yes.”

“I got one of them, didn’t I?”

“Yes, he is lying in the other room.”

“Pretty sick, is he?”

“He is going to die, Thad.”

“Uh-huh, that’s what I expected him to do when I took a shot at him.”

The old prospector looked at Doctor Burton appealingly, as if there was
another question which he longed, yet dreaded to ask.

Saint Jimmy evaded the unspoken question by asking:

“Have you guessed who that fellow, John Holt, really is, Thad?”

“He certain sure ain’t no decent prospector or he wouldn’t be tryin’ to
carry away my gal like he’s doin’--that’s all I know.”

“He is Sonora Jack the outlaw. Natachee found it out.”

“Holy Cats! An’ I wasted a shot on a measly Mex when I might jest as
well a-picked the king himself first. But what do you figger he wants to
carry off my gal that-a-way for?”

“I wish we knew,” said Saint Jimmy.

“Wal, there ain’t no good tryin’ to guess. We’ll know what we know when
Natachee and Hugh comes back with her--But, say, Doc----“

The old prospector hesitated, and his gaze roamed about the room.

Saint Jimmy swallowed a lump in his throat.

“What, Thad?”

“Where--why--“ the gnarled fingers plucked at the bedding nervously, and
the faded blue eyes at last met the eyes of the younger man with such
pathetic fear that Saint Jimmy’s eyes filled.

“Why ain’t my Pardner Bob here? Where is he? He didn’t go with the Injun
an’ the boy?”

“No, Thad, Bob did not go with Hugh and Natachee.”

The old prospector put out his trembling hand as if to cling to Saint
Jimmy, and Doctor Burton caught it in both his own.

“They--they didn’t get my pardner--Bob ain’t cashed in?”

Saint Jimmy bowed his head.

Then his mother came to the door and the Doctor willingly made an excuse
to leave his patient for a little. When he returned an hour later and
Mother Burton had yielded her place to him and left the room, old Thad
smiled up at him.

“That mother of yourn is a plumb wonder, sir. I always suspicioned it on
account of what she’s done for Marta, but I know now that I hadn’t even
begun to appreciate it. I reckon I’ll be gettin’ up now.”

“And I reckon you won’t,” retorted the Doctor, putting out a firm hand
and pushing him back on the pillow. “You’ll stay right where you are
until to-morrow morning. You have already talked too much. Here, let me
fix the bandage. There, that will do. Now take this and turn your face
to the wall--and keep quiet.”

The old prospector obeyed.

But the next morning he was out of the house before either Saint Jimmy
or his mother had left their beds. When Mrs. Burton went to call him for
breakfast, she found him beside the grave under the mesquite trees.

“You see, ma’am,” he explained with childish confusion, “I got to
imaginin’ ’long in the night that my Pardner Bob must be feelin’
all-fired lonesome an’ left-out like, with me sleepin’ in the house an’
him out here all alone. Bob an’ me ain’t never been very far apart, you
see, for a good many years now, an’ so I felt like he’d kind of want me
’round somewheres. It’s funny, ain’t it, how an old desert rat like me
could get fussed up that-a-way! I think mebby that Bob would feel some
better too if only our gal was here. I’m plumb sure I would. But I know
she’ll be back all right. That Injun can hang to a trail like the smell
follers a skunk, an’ the boy will be here too, with both feet, when it
comes to gettin’ her away from them again. That half Mex an’ the Lizard
won’t stand a show agin Natachee an’ our Hugh. I wish they’d hurry back,
though.

“Yes, ma’am, I’m comin’.

“So long, Pardner, I got to get my breakfast. I’ll be back again
directly.”

Every day he spent the greater part of his time under the mesquite trees
with Bob, and in the night they would hear him going out “to see,” as he
said, “if his pardner was all right.”

It was there that Marta found him the morning of her return with Hugh
and Natachee.

Later, when Mother Burton had put the tired girl to bed, old Thad roamed
contentedly about the place, petting Nugget and going often to the door
of Marta’s room to listen with a smile for any sound that would tell him
the girl was awake. And that night he did not leave the house.

“You see, ma’am,” he explained to Mother Burton in the morning, “Bob
he’s all right now that our gal is safe home again and there ain’t
nobody ever goin’ to steal her no more. It’s a good thing the Lizard is
gone an’ that the Injun done for that Sonora Jack, ’cause if they hadn’t
a-got what was comin’ to ’em, I’d be obliged to take a try for them
myself, old as I be. I couldn’t never a-looked Bob in the face again
nohow, if I’d a-let them hombres get away with such a job as that. But
it’s all right now--it’s sure all right.”

During the forenoon of the day following Marta’s return, the Mexican at
last spoke to Doctor Burton, who was dressing his patient’s wound. As
the man spoke in his native tongue, Saint Jimmy could not understand.
Going to the door, he called Natachee. When the Mexican had repeated
what he had said, the Indian interpreted his words for Saint Jimmy.

“He says he thinks he is going to die and wants to know if it is so.”

“Shall I tell him the truth, Natachee?”

“Why not?” returned the Indian coldly. “He may have something that he
wishes to say. Perhaps it is something the friends of Miss Hillgrove
should know.”

“Tell him, then, that there is no hope for his life. Death is certain.
It may come any time now.”

When Natachee had repeated the Doctor’s words in the Mexican tongue and
the dying man had replied, the Indian said:

“There is something that he wants to tell. He says that you and your
mother have been so kind that he will not die without speaking of the
girl you both love so much. I think you should call the others. It may
be in the nature of a confession and it would be well to have them.”

He spoke again to the Mexican and the man answered:

“Si, habla le a la muchacha y sus amigos.”

Natachee interpreted:

“Yes, call the girl and her friends.”

A few minutes later Mother Burton, Thad, Hugh Edwards and Marta were
with Saint Jimmy and the Indian in the presence of the dying Mexican.




CHAPTER XXXI

THE MEXICAN’S CONFESSION

     It was well that no one in the room, save Natachee and the Mexican,
     could at that moment see Saint Jimmy’s face.


Slowly the eyes of the Mexican turned from face to face of the silent
group. But it was upon Saint Jimmy’s face that his gaze finally rested,
and it was to Saint Jimmy that he addressed himself. The Indian, as
coldly impersonal and impassive as a mechanical instrument, translated:

“He says that you, Doctor Burton, are a man who lives very close to God.
When you are near him, he can feel God.”

“God is never far from any man,” returned Saint Jimmy.

Natachee translated the Doctor’s words, and the Mexican replied in his
mother tongue, which the Indian rendered in English.

“He says, yes, sir, that is true, but some men keep their backs toward
God and refuse to see or listen to Him. He says he is one who has lived
with his face away from God.”

“Tell him, then, to turn around.”

Again the Indian translated Saint Jimmy’s words and received the
Mexican’s answer.

“He says he sees God when he looks at you--that if you will remain with
him when he dies he can go with his face toward God.”

“I will not leave him,” returned Saint Jimmy. “Tell him not to fear.”

When he received this message from the Indian, the man smiled and made
the sign of the cross. Then he spoke again and Natachee translated:

“He says to thank you, and that now he will tell you all he knows about
the girl you love.”

It was well that no one in the room, save Natachee and the Mexican,
could at that moment see Saint Jimmy’s face.

“Tell him that we are listening.”

With frequent pauses to gather strength or to shape the things he would
say, the Mexican told his story. In those intervals Natachee’s deep
voice, without a trace of feeling, made the message clear to the little
company.

“His name is Chico Alvarez. He was a member of Sonora Jack’s band of
outlaws in the years when they were active here in this part of Arizona.

“About twenty years ago they held up a man and woman who were driving in
a covered wagon on the road from Tucson to Yuma and California. The man
and woman were killed. There was a little girl hiding in the bottom of
the wagon. They did not know the baby was there when they shot the man
and woman.

“When Sonora Jack was searching the outfit for money and valuables, he
found papers and letters that told him about the little girl. She was
not the child of the people who were killed. They had stolen her, when
she was a little baby, from her real parents who lived in the east.

“Sonora Jack saved all the papers and letters that told about the child,
but burned everything else in the outfit so that no one would know there
had been a child with the man and woman. He took the baby with him. He
said her parents were very rich and would pay much money to have their
little girl again.

“The officers were close after the outlaws who were escaping to their
place across the border, and Sonora Jack left the little girl with his
mother, who was Mexican and lived with her man, not Jack’s father, on a
little ranch near the border. When Sonora Jack went back to his mother
for the child, after the sheriff and his men had given up trying to
catch him that time, he found that two prospectors had taken the little
girl away.

“Sonora Jack dared not come again into the United States because of the
reward that was offered for him, so he could not follow the prospectors,
and the little girl was lost to him. Sonora Jack went south in Mexico
and stayed there where he was safe.

“Last year a man showed him an old Spanish map of the Cañada del Oro and
the Mine with the Iron Door. Sonora Jack and this man, Chico, came to
find the mine. They did not find the mine but they found again the
little girl, whose people would pay so much money to have her back.
Sonora Jack planned to steal the girl. He said they would take her into
Mexico and keep her until her people paid much money. If it should be
that her people were dead, then he and Chico would make from her enough
money in another way to pay them for their trouble. That is all.”

The Mexican closed his eyes wearily.

Saint Jimmy spoke quickly:

“Ask him what became of the things that told about the little girl’s
parents, and how she was stolen from them.”

The Indian spoke to the man and received his reply.

“He says, ‘I do not know. Sonora Jack he always keep those things for
himself.’”

Hugh Edwards cried hoarsely:

“But the name, Natachee, ask him the name.”

The dying Mexican opened his eyes as the Indian, bending over him,
repeated the question. He answered:

“Eso nunca me dijo Sonora Jack,” and with a look toward Saint Jimmy,
sank into unconsciousness.

Natachee faced toward that little company of agitated listeners.

“He says, ‘Sonora Jack never did tell me that.’”

Mother Burton led Marta from the room. Old Thad, muttering to himself,
followed.

Doctor Burton turned from the bedside, saying quietly:

“It is all over. He is gone.”

Natachee spoke:

“You, Doctor Burton--and you, Hugh Edwards, wait here for me. The others
will not come again into this room for a little while. Wait, I will come
back in a moment.”

The Indian left the room.

Hugh Edwards and Saint Jimmy looked at each other in wondering silence.

When Natachee returned, he held in his hand a flat package, some six
inches wide by eight inches long and about an inch in thickness. The
envelope was of leather, laced securely, and there were straps attached.
The straps had been cut.

The Indian addressed Hugh:

“As I fought with Sonora Jack, did you see that when I struck his breast
my knife drew no blood?”

“Yes,” returned Edwards, “I saw it and wondered about it at the time.
But what happened immediately after made me forget. Now that you mention
it, I remember distinctly.”

“Good! When you had gone back to Miss Hillgrove, I looked to see why my
knife had refused to touch the snake’s heart until I found the way
between his shoulders. This package was fastened to Sonora Jack’s breast
under his shirt. This strap was over his shoulder to support it. This
other strap was around his chest to hold the packet in place. Look,
there are the marks of my knife. Three times I struck--there and there
and there.”

The two white men exclaimed with amazement at the Indian’s statement.

“I think,” said Natachee slowly, “that you would do well to see what
this thing is, that the stealer of little girls hid so carefully under
his clothing and fastened so securely to his body.”

Hugh Edwards drew back with an appealing look at Saint Jimmy, who took
the packet from the Indian.

“Must this thing be opened?” said Edwards.

“Yes, Hugh, I think so,” returned the Doctor gently. “Anything else
would hardly be fair to Marta, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” answered Edwards with a groan. “All right, go
ahead. You can tell me when you have finished.”

He turned away and went to the window where he sat with his back toward
Saint Jimmy, who seated himself at the table. Natachee stood near the
door with his arms folded, as motionless as a statue.

Undoing the lacing of the leather envelope, Saint Jimmy found a number
of newspaper clippings, so cut as to preserve the name and date line of
the paper--several letters--and a diary, with various entries under
different dates, rather poorly written but legible.

Swiftly he scanned the printed articles. The diary and the letters he
read with more care.

Hugh Edwards was like a man condemned already in his own mind, awaiting
the formality of the verdict.

When Marta’s birth and the character of her parents had been under a
cloud, the man who was branded before the world a criminal had felt
that their love was right and that there was no obstacle to their
marriage. He had reasoned, indeed, that their happiness would in a
measure lighten the shadow that lay over the girl’s life, and in a
degree would atone for the injustice under which he himself had
suffered. The unjust shame and humiliation that the girl had felt so
keenly--the dishonor and shame that injustice had brought upon him, had
been to them a common bond; while the knowledge of what each had
innocently suffered and the sympathy of each for the other had deepened
and strengthened their love.

But as he listened to the dying Mexican’s story, he saw the barrier that
was being raised to his happiness with the girl he loved. Marta’s birth
and parentage were not, after all, what the old prospectors, Saint
Jimmy, and Marta herself had believed. What, then, was left to justify
him in asking her to become the wife of a convict? If, indeed, her birth
and name were without a shadow, how could he ask her to accept his
name--dishonored as it was? And if it should be shown that her people
were living--if they were people of importance and honor, how then could
the convict who loved her ask her to share his life of dishonor?

When the Mexican had been unable to give the name, hope had again risen
in Edwards’ heart. But when Natachee brought the packet which Sonora
Jack had treasured with such care, Hugh Edwards knew that it was only a
matter of minutes until the identity of the woman he loved would be
established, which meant that now he could never ask her to be his wife.

Saint Jimmy finished reading the papers and carefully placed them again
in the leather envelope. To the watching Indian, he seemed undecided. He
had the air of one not quite sure of his hand.

At last, looking up, he said slowly:

“You are right, Natachee, this envelope completes the Mexican’s story
and establishes the identity of the girl we have always known as Marta
Hillgrove.”




CHAPTER XXXII

REVELATION

     Natachee remembered


Hugh Edwards rose to his feet.

“Well,” he said desperately, “let’s have it.”

Saint Jimmy answered in an odd musing tone:

“Marta, or Martha, for that is her name, was born in a little city in
southwestern Missouri--in the lead and zinc mining district. Her parents
were both held in the highest esteem in the community where their
families had lived for three generations.

“About the time Marta was born, her father, who was a real-estate
speculator and trader on a rather small scale, purchased a tract of land
from some people who could barely make a living on it. The land was
hilly and stony and covered mostly with scrub oak, which made it almost
worthless for farming and the man and his wife were glad to get the
usual market price for such property.

“But shortly after, this same cheap farm land was developed as a very
valuable mineral property--about the richest, in fact, in that
district.”

Hugh Edwards interrupted:

“Wait a minute--did you learn all this just now from the contents of
that package?”

“No, Hugh, the fact is, I was born and grew up in that same Missouri
town. It was the home of my people, and even after I went to St. Louis,
I was in close touch with the old place. These papers here merely fill
in some of the missing details of a story that I have known for years. I
am trying to tell it to you so that you will understand everything
clearly.”

“Go on, please.”

“When the property they had sold proved so valuable, the people who had
been glad to receive the price they did for their supposedly worthless
farm lands were very bitter. They considered themselves swindled and,
being the sort they were, brooded over their fancied wrongs until they
formed a plan of revenge. They stole the baby, Martha.

“The plan of the kidnappers, as it is shown here,” Saint Jimmy touched
the packet on the table, “was to hold the little girl until her father
had made a fortune from the mineral lands he had purchased from them,
and then to force him to pay a large part of that wealth back to them as
a ransom for the child.

“The man and woman, with the baby, traveled west by wagon. They always
camped. When supplies were needed, the man would go alone to purchase
them. They rarely entered a town except to pass through, and then of
course took every precaution to hide the child. Their plan to extort
money from the father, led them to preserve carefully the evidence that
would later prove the identity of the little girl. Their fears of arrest
led them to conceal their own identity as carefully. It was more than a
year later when they reached Tucson. The rest of the story we have
heard.

“I should add that Marta’s mother died six months after the baby was
stolen. George Clinton, after his wife’s death, sold his mining
interests and moved to California.”

Hugh Edwards started forward. His face was ghastly. His lips trembled so
that he could scarcely form the words. “George Clinton, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“George Willard Clinton?”

“Yes, do you know of him?”

Hugh Edwards, fighting for self-control, became very still. Turning his
back on the others, he walked to the window and stood looking out.

“Yes,” he said at last, and his voice was steady now, “yes, I know him.
He lives in Los Angeles. I had heard that he was at one time interested
in mines in Missouri. But of course I knew nothing of this story that
you have told. He is a very wealthy man.”

“What a splendid thing for Marta,” exclaimed Saint Jimmy.

Hugh Edwards left the window and went to stand beside the body of the
Mexican.

“Yes, it will be very fine for her.”

And suddenly, as he stood looking down at the dead man, Hugh Edwards
laughed.

Saint Jimmy sprang to his feet. Such laughter was not good to hear.

“Hugh!”

The man whirled on him. “You win, Saint Jimmy--congratulations.” He
rushed madly from the room.

Saint Jimmy gazed at Natachee, speechless with amazement.

“What on earth did he mean by that!” he said at last.

“Is it possible you do not know?”

The other shook his head.

Natachee said slowly:

“When everybody believed that the woman Hugh Edwards loved was one who
had no real right to even the name she bore, then he could ask her to
become his wife. Now that the woman is the daughter of honor and wealth,
how can the convict expect her to go with him? Hugh Edwards is not
blind. He sees it is now more fitting that the woman he loves become the
wife of his friend, Saint Jimmy, upon whose name there is no shadow.”

But Natachee, with the cunning of his Indian nature, had not given Saint
Jimmy the whole truth in his explanation of Hugh Edwards’ manner.

Natachee remembered that the man who had promoted that investment
company, and who had used his power, as the president of the
institution, to rob the people of their savings, and who, to shield
himself, had sent Donald Payne, an innocent man, to prison, was George
Willard Clinton.




CHAPTER XXXIII

GOLD

     He saw that the need of gold is a curse--that the craving for gold
     is a greater curse--that the possession of gold may be the greatest
     curse of all.


When Hugh Edwards left Saint Jimmy and the Indian, he was beside himself
with grief and rage. He had prepared himself, in a measure, to lose
Marta. He had told himself that his love was strong enough to endure
even that test, but to give her up because she proved to be the daughter
of the man who, by making him a convict, had robbed him of the right to
keep her, was more than he could endure.

As he rushed blindly from the house that had been to him a house of
refuge, but was now become a house of torment, Marta called to him.

He did not stop. He must get away--away from them all. The old
prospector, Saint Jimmy, Natachee, Marta, the dead Mexican--they had all
conspired with God to sink him in a hell of conflicting love and hatred.

When he came to himself, he was at the cabin where he had made his home
during those first months of his life in the Cañon of Gold. When he was
seeking a place to hide, as a wild creature wounded by the hunters
seeks to hide from the dogs, he had found that little cabin. He had
learned to feel safe there. But he did not feel safe there now. The
empty place was crowded with memories that would drive him to some deed
of madness.

It was there his dream of freedom and love had been born. It was there
that the dear comradeship of the girl had led him to believe there might
still be something to hope for, to work for and to live for. He could
not stay there now. The place was no longer a place where he could hide
from his enemies; it was a trap, a snare. He must go, and go quickly.

Without consciously willing his movements, indeed, without realizing
where he was going, he climbed out of the cañon and hurried away up the
mountain slopes and along the ridges in the direction of Natachee’s hut.
With no clearly defined trail to follow, it is doubtful if in his normal
mental state he could have found the place. He certainly would not have
made the attempt, particularly at that time of day. But some
subconscious memory must have guided him, for at sundown he found
himself in the familiar gulch where he had toiled all through the winter
for the gold that meant for him the realization of his dreams of freedom
and happiness with Marta. When night came, he was seated on that spot
from which he had so often, in the agony of those lonely months of
hiding, watched the tiny point of light in the gloom of the cañon below.

With his eyes fixed on that red spot, which he knew was the window of
Marta’s room, Hugh Edwards brooded over the series of events that had
ended in that hour of his dead hopes and broken dreams.

His thoughts went back even to those glad days when he was graduated
from his university, and when, with a heart of honest courage and
purpose, he had accepted a position of trust in the institution that
seemed to afford such an opportunity for service. He recalled every
proud step of his advancement from office to office, of increasing
responsibility.

He lived again that appalling hour when he knew that he had been
promoted only that he might be betrayed. Again he suffered the agony of
his arrest--the trial, with his baffled attempts to prove his
innocence--the hideous publicity--the hatred of the people--and again he
heard the sentence that condemned him to years in prison, and to a life
of dishonor and shame.

Once more he endured the horror of a convict’s life--and the death of
his mother.

Then came the terrible experiences of his escape--when he was hunted as
a wild beast is hunted, with dogs and guns.

And then--the Cañon of Gold, with its promise of peace and safety--its
blessed work and dreams and hopes--its miraculous gift of love.

One by one, the strange events of his life in the Cañon of Gold passed
in review before him--the period when he lived in the cabin next door to
the old prospectors and their partnership daughter--his comradeship
with Marta and the sure development of their love--the story of the
girl’s questionable parentage that had made it possible for him to think
of her as his wife--then the visit of the sheriff--his enforced life of
torment with the Indian, and his fruitless toil for the gold that held
him with its promise of freedom and Marta.

Again he lived over the coming of the outlaw, with the sudden turn of
fortune that made Natachee his ally, and gave him the gold from the Mine
with the Iron Door.

And then, with the gold in his possession and all its promises almost
within his grasp, the tragedy and disaster that had followed. Until now,
having gained the wealth for which, inspired by love, he had toiled and
fought, he had lost the thing which gave the gold its value. The thing
for which he had wanted the gold had become impossible to him.

The light in the Cañon of Gold went out. The hours passed, and still the
man held his place on that wild spot high up in the mountains.

And now he saw and felt the mysteries of the night--saw the wide sea of
darkness that engulfed the vast desert below, and felt the whispering
breath of the desert air--saw the mighty peaks and shoulders of the
mountains lifting out of the dark shadows below, up and up and up into
the star-lit sky, and felt the fragrant coolness dropping from the pines
that held the snows--saw the night sky filled with countless star
worlds, and felt the brooding Presence that fixes the time of their
every movement, and marks their paths of gleaming light--saw the black
depths of the Cañon of Gold, and felt the ghostly multitude of the
disappointed ones who had toiled there, as he had toiled, for the
treasure they never found, or, finding, were cursed with its possession.

And then, as one who in a vision glimpses the underlying truth of
things, this man, on the mountain heights above the Cañada del Oro, saw
that life itself was but a Cañon of Gold.

As men through the ages had braved the dangers and endured the hardships
of desert and mountains to gain the yellow wealth from the Cañada del
Oro, so men braved dangers and endured hardships everywhere. Every dream
of man was a dream of gold. Every effort was an effort for gold. Every
hope was a hope for gold. For gold was life and honor and power and love
and happiness. And gold was death and dishonor and murder and hatred and
misery.

It was gold that had led Marta’s father to purchase the rich mining
property from the ignorant owners, for a price that was little more than
nothing. The victims of George Clinton’s shrewdness had stolen his
child, in the hope that by her they might regain the gold they had lost.
It was for gold that Clinton had robbed the people who, because of their
need for gold, had trusted him with their savings. To insure himself in
the possession of gold, Clinton had sent Donald Payne to prison and
condemned him to a life of dishonor. Gold, to the escaped convict, had
meant, at first, the bare necessities of life. It had come to mean
everything for which a man desires to live. For gold, Sonora Jack had
given himself to crime. Lured by the gold of the Mine with the Iron Door
he had come to the Cañada del Oro and had been brought, finally, to his
death. It was gold that had, at last, led to the revelations that
brought the love of Hugh Edwards and Marta to naught.

The man saw that the story of his life in the Cañon of Gold, with its
needs, its hopes, its labor, its fears, its victories and defeats, was
the story of all life, everywhere.

He saw that the need of gold is a curse--that the craving for gold is a
greater curse--that the possession of gold may be the greatest curse of
all.

When Hugh Edwards went down to the cabin he found Natachee the Indian
waiting for him.




CHAPTER XXXIV

MORNING

     “The heart of a white man is a strange thing--I, Natachee, cannot
     understand.”


And Hugh Edwards knew by the light that flashed in the Indian’s somber
eyes--by the expression of that dark countenance, and by the proud
bearing of the red man, that Natachee had put aside the teaching of the
white man’s school. There was something, too, beneath the Indian’s
stoical composure which told Hugh that he was under the strain of some
great excitement.

Gazing at Edwards with a curious intentness, the Indian said:

“My friend has been watching his star in the Cañon of Gold.”

“Yes, Natachee, I have been up on the mountain.”

Silently the Indian gave him a letter. It was from Marta.

Hugh handled the letter, turning it over and over, as if debating with
himself what he should do with it.

“Open it and read,” said the Indian, “then hear what I, Natachee, shall
say.”

Edwards opened the letter and read.

It was not a long letter, but it was filled with the strongest
assurances of understanding and sympathy that a woman’s loving heart
could pen. Saint Jimmy had told her of the completion of the story that
had been left unfinished by the Mexican, and had explained its effect on
the man she loved. But it made no difference to her, that she was proved
to be the daughter of George Clinton, except that she was glad for her
future husband’s sake that her birth was honorable--that she was not
nameless, as she had believed herself to be. For the rest, everything
must go on exactly as if she were still the old prospectors’ partnership
girl. Saint Jimmy had gone to complete the arrangements he had started
to make when Sonora Jack carried her away. There must be no change in
their plans. When they were safe out of the country, she could
communicate with her father. Hugh must come for her at once. She would
be waiting for him to-morrow morning.

With deliberate care, Hugh Edwards folded the letter and returned it to
the envelope.

The Indian was watching him intently.

The man did not appear in any way surprised, elated or disturbed. One
would have said that he had been expecting the letter--had foreseen its
contents, and had already, in his mind, answered it. His manner was that
of one who, having fought and lived through the crisis of a storm,
methodically and wearily takes up again the routine duties of his
existence.

Calmly, with a shadowy smile that would have caused Marta to think of
Saint Jimmy, he spoke.

“What is it that you wish to say, Natachee?”

“I, Natachee the Indian, can now pay the debt I owe Hugh Edwards.”

“You have more than paid that debt, Natachee.”

The red man returned haughtily:

“Is the life of Natachee of such little value that it is paid for by the
death of that snake, Sonora Jack, and his companion who stopped the
arrow?”

“But for you, Marta would not have escaped from Sonora Jack and the
other outlaws,” returned Edwards.

“But for me, no one would know the woman Hugh Edwards loves, except as
the Pardners’ girl. Hugh Edwards, but for Natachee, would be free to
make her his wife.”

Indicating the letter in his hand, Hugh answered:

“She says here that it need make no difference. She says for me to come,
as if the Mexican had died without speaking, as if you had taken nothing
from Sonora Jack.”

The Indian’s eyes blazed with triumph.

“Good! That is as I, Natachee, wanted it to be. Now the way of my friend
to the great desire of his heart is clear. Listen! When you left so
hurriedly, after hearing the name of the girl’s father, Doctor Burton
wondered at your manner. I told him that now, when the girl was known to
be the daughter of a man of wealth and honorable position, you felt you
could not take her for your wife.”

“That was true enough,” returned Edwards, wondering at the excitement
which the Indian, with all of his assumed composure, could not hide.

“Yes, but I did not tell any one that it was the girl’s father who sent
you, my friend, to prison. No one but Hugh Edwards and Natachee knows
that. No one shall know until you, Donald Payne, are revenged for all
that this man Clinton has made you suffer. When you have trapped this
Clinton coyote--when you have made him pay for your shame--your
imprisonment--your mother’s death--when he has paid for everything your
heart holds against him--then I, Natachee, will have paid my debt to
you.”

Hugh Edwards gazed at the Indian, bewildered, amazed, wondering.

“What on earth do you mean, Natachee?”

“Do you not understand? Listen.”

“The girl, who does not know what her father did, will go with you.
Good!--Take her. Let there be a pretense of marriage. Then, when her
shame is accomplished, send her to her father. Let George Clinton, who
made Donald Payne a convict, beg that convict to give his daughter a
name for her children. The shame that he heaped upon your name--the
dishonor that he compelled you to suffer--you will give back to him
through his daughter.”

The white man exclaimed with horror:

“In God’s name stop!”

“Is not the heart of Donald Payne filled with hate for the man who has
filled his life with suffering?”

“Yes, Natachee, I hate George Clinton.”

“But you will not take the revenge that I, Natachee, have planned for
you?”

“No--No--No!”

“The heart of a white man is a strange thing,” returned the Indian. “I,
Natachee, cannot understand.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The sun was not yet above the mountains, but the sky was glorious with
the beauty of the new day, when Hugh Edwards stood in the doorway of the
Indian’s hut.

Against a sky of liquid gold, melting into the deeper blue above,
wreaths of flaming crimson cloud mists were flung with the careless
splendor of the Artist who paints with the brush of the wind and the
colors of light on the canvas of the heavens. The man bared his head
and, with face uplifted, watched.

He felt the soft breath of the spring on his cheek and caught the
perfume of cedar and pine. He heard the birds singing among the blossoms
on the mountain side. He saw the mighty peaks and crags towering high.
He looked down upon the foothills and mesas and afar over the desert
where gray-blue shadows drifted on a sea of color into the far purple
distance. A squirrel, in a live oak near by, chattered a glad good
morning. A buck stepped from the cover of a manzanita thicket and stood,
for a moment, with antlered head lifted, as if he too sensed the beauty
and the meaning of life. A timid doe came to stand beside her lordly
mate. The man, motionless, held his breath. In a flash they were gone.

Natachee the Indian stood beside his white companion.

Hugh Edwards held out his hand to the red man.

“Good-by, Natachee.”

“You go?” asked the puzzled Indian.

“Yes, you have paid your debt, Natachee.”

The fire of savage exultation flamed in the red man’s eyes.

“Hugh Edwards will take the revenge that I, Natachee, have offered?”

“No.”

The Indian said doubtfully, as if striving for an answer to the thing
which puzzled him so:

“There is something in the white man’s heart that is more than hate?”

“Yes, Natachee. Yesterday I believed that there was nothing left for me
in life but hate. Then you, last night, revealed to me what hate might
do, and I knew the strength of love. I must go now--to the woman who is
waiting for me, down there in the Cañon of Gold.”

But Hugh Edwards, when he told Saint Jimmy that George Clinton was
living, had been mistaken.

The very night that Natachee brought the girl from that place where
Sonora Jack had taken her, Marta’s father died in a Los Angeles
hospital. In the same hour that the Indian and the girl were stealing
from the Mexican house south of the border, the man for whose crime
Donald Payne was sent to prison was dictating a confession. With the
last of his strength, he signed the instrument.

Natachee, when he offered to Hugh Edwards his scheme of revenge, did not
know that at that very moment every newspaper in the land was heralding
the innocence of the escaped convict, Donald Payne. The man who went
down the mountain slopes and ridges toward the Cañon of Gold that
morning did not know that he was even then a free man. The girl who
waited for her lover who had never spoken to her of his love did not
know. But Doctor Burton, when he went to Oracle the evening before to
complete his arrangements for that wedding journey, had received the
news.

It was like Saint Jimmy to meet Hugh Edwards on the mountain side that
morning, and to tell him what he had learned before Hugh had come within
sight of the house in the cañon. It was like Saint Jimmy, too, to
suggest that perhaps now Marta need never know, at least not until after
they had returned from their trip abroad.




CHAPTER XXXV

FREEDOM

     It was the plan that had been arranged by Saint Jimmy.


Late in the afternoon of that appointed day, an automobile from Tucson
turned off from the Bankhead Highway into the old road that leads to the
Cañada del Oro.

At the point where the road enters the Cañon of Gold, which is as far as
an automobile can go on that ancient trail, Hugh and Marta, with old
Thad, were waiting.

The automobile would take them, without a stop, straight south through
Tucson to Nogales, where they would cross the international boundary
line into Nogales, Mexico. From there, immediately after the wedding
ceremony, Donald Payne and his bride would travel by rail to Mexico
City, from which point in due time they would go to the lands of the old
world. Thad would return to the Cañada del Oro, and would, for a while
at least, make his home with Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton.

It was the plan that had been arranged by Saint Jimmy when they all
believed that it was unsafe for Hugh to make his real name known in the
United States. For Marta’s sake, the original plan was still to be
carried out. When Marta and her husband were safely out of the country
and on their way abroad, Doctor Burton would give the facts to the
newspapers. In a few months the sensational story would cease to be of
news interest to the press and would be forgotten by the public. Then
Marta would be told that her husband’s innocence had been
established--that Donald Payne, no longer a fugitive from prison, was
free to return again to his own country.

Saint Jimmy and his mother had said their goodbys at the little home of
the old prospectors and their partnership girl.

From a rocky point on Samaniego Ridge, high above the Cañon of Gold,
Natachee the Indian saw the black moving spot which was the automobile
on the old trail that had been followed by so many peoples, in so many
ages.

Motionless, as a figure of stone, with a face unmoved, the red man
watched.

The automobile stopped.

The dark eyes of the Indian, trained to such distance, could see, as no
white man could have seen, the three figures entering the machine.

The automobile moved away, winding down through the foothills, crawling
cautiously over the ridges, laboring heavily across the sandy washes,
growing smaller and smaller until even to the Indian’s vision it was
lost in the gray-brown plain of the desert. But still Natachee’s gaze
held toward the south where presently he saw a faint cloud of dust
rising from the yellow threadlike line of highway. Then the cloud of
dust melted into the desert air. A moment longer the Indian watched.
Then slowly his gaze swept the many miles that lie between the foot of
the Santa Catalinas and the far horizon.

A puff of air, fragrant with the scent of the desert, stirred the single
feather that drooped from the loosely twisted folds of the Indian’s
headband. In the blue depth of the sky, a wheeling eagle screamed.

Lifting his dark face toward the mountain peaks that towered above his
lonely hut, Natachee the Indian--mystic guardian of the Mine with the
Iron Door--smiled.


THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

By HAROLD BELL WRIGHT


THAT PRINTER OF UDELL’S

A gripping story of character and action, dealing with a young man’s
fight for more practical Christianity.


THE SHEPHERD OF THE HILLS

The hearts of men and women, their thoughts and acts, seen in the clear,
inspiring atmosphere of the Ozark region.


THE CALLING OF DAN MATTHEWS

Through experience of people and conditions in a mid-western town, Dan
Matthews learns that a man’s true ministry is the work in which he
serves best.


THE UNCROWNED KING

A beautiful allegory of life, showing that “the Crown is not the
Kingdom, nor is one King because he wears a Crown.”


THE WINNING OF BARBARA WORTH

Achievements of human enterprise in a charming love story whose
background is an epic of desert reclamation.


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
New York                London

       *       *       *       *       *

By HAROLD BELL WRIGHT


HELEN OF THE OLD HOUSE

A great human story of American manhood and womanhood in the industrial
life of to-day.


THE RE-CREATION OF BRIAN KENT

Keen revelation of life’s invisible forces, out of which come a man’s
recovery from desperation, and his success in life and love.


WHEN A MAN’S A MAN

In the cattle country of Arizona, where a man _must_ be a man, a
stranger from another way of life proves himself in many stirring
experiences.


THE EYES OF THE WORLD

A beautiful love story with the inspiration of Nature contrasted
impressively with a life of materialism.


THEIR YESTERDAYS

A delicate story of life and love and the great elemental things that
rule men from early childhood onward.


D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
New York      London

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 65995 ***