Lost Pueblo (1992) (11 page)

"You got your hair wet," said Randolph, disapprovingly.

"So I did," replied Janey, with her hand to her head.

"Well, there isn't very much of it, so it'll dry quickly... You must have had beautiful hair once."

"Once?"

"Yes, once. Women have sacrificed for fad and comfort. The grace, the glamour, the exquisite something natural to women disappeared with their long hair. It's a pity. Why did you want to look like a man?"

"Look like a man? I never did."

"Why did you cut your hair then?"

"To be honest I don't know. My reasons would sound silly to you. But as a matter of fact women are slaves to fashion. They used to be slaves to many things--men, for instance. But we've eliminated that."

"I wonder if women are eliminating love also?" he inquired, gloomily.

"They probably are, until men are worthy of it."

Randolph stalked off into the darkness, and stayed so long that Janey began to be anxious. Surely he would not leave her alone. It was pitch dark now; the rain and wind were augmenting; the solitude of the place seemed accentuated. Janey gazed out into the dark void, and then back at the caverned cliff. There might be all kinds of wild animals. Snakes and reptiles. It was delightful for a woman to be alone on occasions, but here was one when there seemed need of a man. To her relief Randolph emerged from the gloom, packing another load of firewood.

"Are you going to stay up all night?" he asked. "Tomorrow will be the hardest day you've had. You need sleep and rest."

"Where am I supposed to get them?"

"I made your bed up there," said Randolph, pointing to a ledge. "It's easy to climb up from this end. You'll be dry... I'll spread my tarp and blankets here by the fire."

Janey did not show any inclination to retire at once. She was tired enough, but did not choose to be sent to bed like a child. She stood by the fire until she was thoroughly dry. Then she sat down on a stone just the right distance from the red crackling logs. Randolph stood on the other side, looking down with his hands outstretched. He seemed to have the burden of the world upon his shoulders. Then he turned his back to the fire, and stood that way for a long time. The wind whipped in under the shelving rock, cool and damp; the rain pattered steadily outside; the fire sputtered and cracked; the fragrant smoke blew this way and that. At last Randolph turned again to face the fire. And he looked more troubled than ever.

"Mr. Randolph, you seem gravely thoughtful for a man who has accomplished his purpose," observed Janey.

"I was just thinking," he replied, giving her a strange glance, "how pleasant a picnic it would be--if we were good friends."

"Yes, wouldn't it?" returned Janey, flippantly.

"Very unreasonable of me, I know. I didn't and couldn't expect you to enjoy being dragged off this way. But being here made me think how--how wonderful it would be if--if--"

He did not conclude the sentence and his closing words were full of regret. Quite evidently he felt that he had sacrificed a great deal to her father's whim. Janey had an uneasy consciousness that sooner or later he would betray her father and explain this unheard-of proceeding. She did not want Randolph to do this and must prevent it coming about. The only way, she repeated to herself, was to give him such a hard time that he would carry the thing out through sheer anger and disgust. As an afterthought Janey reflected that she could correct the terrible impression she was likely to give him. But suppose she could not! She dismissed that as absurd.

"I'd prefer you had kidnaped me in a limousine," she said lightly. "I'm used to being whisked off--and kept parked in some outlandish place."

"Good God!" he ejaculated. "I've begun to believe your father!"

"What did he say?"

"Never mind. But it was enough... And--will you oblige me by keeping your your habits to yourself."

Janey tittered. "If that isn't just like a man! A lot of thanks I get for trying to make it easy for you."

"Make what easy?" he asked, belligerently.

"Why, this stunt of yours... Now you've got me off on your old desert I should think you'd be glad to find I'm not--well, an innocent and unsophisticated little gal."

"Janey Endicott, you're a liar!" he almost shouted at her, starting up, bristling. Then he wheeled and strode off into the darkness along the cliff wall.

He left Janey with a heart beating high. In spite of her bald remarks he was struggling to keep alive his ideal of her. Janey thought she might go too far and stab it to death. But the truth was that her father had grossly misrepresented her, and that she had aided and abetted it by falsehood. Love was not easily killed, certainly not by a few lies. She would carry on. And the revelation of her true self to Randolph would be all the sweeter. Gazing into the opal heart of the campfire Janey lost herself momentarily in a dream, from which she awakened with a start. A coyote had wailed his dismal war cry. It made Janey shiver.

She left the campfire, and climbed up the slanting rough rock to the ledge where Randolph had made her bed. What a nice snug rock, high and dry! Janey would feel reasonably safe when Randolph came back. She sat down on the tarpaulin covering her bed, and her sensation roused the conception that it would not be a feather bed or a hair mattress by an exceedingly long shot. Suddenly she realized she would have to sleep in her clothes for the first time in her life. How strange! Then without more ado she took off her coat, made a pillow of it, and removing her shoes she slipped down into the blankets, stretched out and lay still.

The bed consisted of two thicknesses of blankets and the canvas under and over them.

Hard as a board under her! Yet what a relief, warmth and comfort the bed gave! The fire cast flickering fantastic shadows upon the roof of this strange habitation. Gusts of wind brought cool raindrops to her fevered face and the smell of wood smoke. Above the steady downpour of rain she heard a renewed crackling of the fire. Rising on her elbow she saw Randolph replenishing it with substantial logs. The night gave Janey satisfaction. She dropped back, laughing inwardly. Phil Randolph was in quite a serious predicament.

Janey settled herself comfortably to think it all over. But she did not seem to be able to control her mind as usual. Her eyelids drooped heavily and though she opened them often they would go shut again, until finally they stuck fast. A pleasant warmth and sense of drowsy rest were stealing over her aching body. She had a vague feeling of anxiety about snakes, tarantulas, scorpions, but it passed. She was being slowly possessed by something vastly stronger than her mind. The rainfall seemed to lessen. And her last lingering consciousness had to do with the fragrance of smoke.

Janey half roused several times during the night, in which she rolled over to try to find a softer place in her bed. But when she thoroughly awoke it was daylight. The rain had ceased. Sunrise was a stormy one of red and black, with a little blue sky in between. When she sat up with a groan and tried to straighten she thought every bone in her body was broken. She sat on her bed and combed her hair, and slyly cleaned her sunburned face with cold cream. Over the edge of rock she spotted Randolph, brisk and whistling round the campfire. Whistling! Janey listened while she put on her shoes. Then she got to her knees. Never had she had so many sore muscles. The arm Randolph had wrenched was the worst.

"Hey, down there," called Janey. "What was the name of that robber baron who ran off with Mary Tudor?"

Randolph stared up at her, almost laughing.

"Bothwell, I believe," he replied, constrainedly.

"Well, good morning, Mr. Bothwell," added Janey.

He returned her greeting with the air of a man who had almost forgotten something unpleasant. He did not whistle any more, and eyed Janey dubiously as she limped and crawled down the slope to a level.

"How are the eats?" she asked, brightly. "I was just about to call you," he said.

"Breakfast will be ready soon as the coffee boils."

"What kind of a day is it going to be?"

"Bad, I fear. It's let up raining, but I think there'll be more."

"Gee, how sore I am! You nearly broke my arm. And that slabstone bed finished me."

"I hope the internal injury is better," he rejoined dryly.

"Oh, that. I guess that was hunger, or else a terrible pang of disappointment to find you such a monster... Call me when you're ready to give me something to eat."

Janey walked about to stretch her limbs. The overhanging sky was leaden and gray, except where a pale brightness had succeeded the ruddy sunrise. She heard a roar down in the canyon and concluded it was running water. Little muddy streams were coursing down the shallow ditches. Beyond the cliff she saw water in sheets running off the rocks above. The cedars were green and fresh; and the sage had an exquisite hue of purple. Janey ventured to the edge of the cedar grove; and saw down into the canyon where a red torrent swirled and splashed. She recalled hearing the trader tell of sudden floods pouring down the dry washes. This was one of them; and she understood now why heavy storms impeded desert travel.

A shout turned Janey's footsteps camp-ward. Randolph had breakfast ready, and it was equally as appetizing as the supper the night before.

"Evidently you're not going to starve me into submission, anyway," she observed.

"I don't know about submission, but you'll be starved into something, all right," he declared.

"Do we have to cross this canyon?"

"We do, and pronto, or we won't cross at all."

"Why, there's a regular torrent."

"Not bad yet."

"Then we must hurry?"

"Yes. If we rustle along--and are lucky--we may make Beckyshibeta tonight."

Not for anything would Janey have importuned Randolph to turn back. But the serious nature of desert travel under unfavorable conditions now dawned upon her; and her mood of levity suffered a sidetracking. She had no more to say. Hurrying through breakfast she proceeded to assist Randolph with the camp chores. He objected, but she paid no attention to him.

"Where are the horses?" she asked, suddenly.

"They'll be near somewhere. They're hobbled, you know, and wouldn't stray from good grass. I'll fetch them in."

He was absent so long that Janey began to worry. At last he showed up, riding his horse bareback, and leading the other two. Surefoot looked fat. Janey undertook the job of saddling him. As she swung up the heavy saddle she observed Randolph watching her out of the corner of his eye. When her horse was ready she turned to Randolph. He was loading the pack animal. Janey had watched the cowboys throw what they called the diamond hitch--an intricate figure-eight knot that held the pack on--and she now saw Randolph was as expert as any of them. Nevertheless some assistance from her was welcome to him. He made only one remark, which concerned the way she pulled on the rope. When the pack was on tight Randolph saddled his own horse.

"I've left my chaps out for you to wear," he said, indicating a pair of worn leather chaps lying on a rock.

"How can I wear chaps in this dress?" asked Janey.

"I don't know. Stuff your skirt down in them. Reckon there's not much to stuff."

Janey overlooked his retort, and picking up the chaps she stepped into them. They were too long and too large. From the expression on Randolph's face she gathered that she must be a peculiar-looking object.

It was when Janey tried mounting her horse that she came to grief. The chaps were stiff and heavy, and she could not reach the stirrup with her foot. Randolph offered to lift her up, but she declined. Finally she made a violent effort, a sort of spring. She missed the pommel with her hand and the stirrup with her foot, and fell flat. Janey scrambled up quite enraged. If there was anything she hated it was to look clumsy. Randolph's face had a strained look. He was holding in his laughter.

"I--I suggest you try to mount from the rock there," he said.

"I'll get up here or die," replied Janey, furiously.

Next time she lifted her left foot with both hands and got it in the stirrup. Then she leaped, sprung from her right foot, and, catching pommel and cantle, she dragged herself up into the saddle.

"Not so bad for a tenderfoot," observed Randolph. Whereupon he rode off, leading the pack horse.

Janey followed down the slope of wet red earth, by some scrawled rocks, into the canyon. They rounded a corner to come upon the muddy swift stream. It was silent here, but from below came up a dull roar. Janey had never seen such dirty-looking water. It was half silt. What a terrifying place to venture into!

Randolph crossed a flat sand bar, and urged his horse into the water. He spurred, and yelled, and dragged at the pack animal. They set up a great muddy splashing. Janey gathered that the more speed used here, the easier and safer the crossing. Her heart simply leaped to her throat. Randolph's horse went in to his flanks. What a tremendous but clumsy struggle the two animals made! Janey almost lost sight of them in the splashing. They reached shallow water, heaved up, and waded out safely on the bar opposite. Randolph halted his horse and turned to look. For a moment he merely looked.

"Well, Central Park," he called, in a tone that challenged Janey.