Lahoma | Page 9

Wichita
Mountains, looking at first like flat sheets of cardboard, cut out by a
careless hand and set upright in the sand.
As he toiled toward this refuge, not a living form appeared to dispute
his sovereignty of the desert world. His feet sank deep in the sand, then
trod lightly over vast stretches of short sun-burned mesquit, then again
traversed hot shifting reaches of naked sand. The mountains seemed to
recede as he advanced, and at times stifling dust and relentless heat
threatened to overpower him. With dogged determination he told
himself that he might be forced to drop from utter exhaustion, but it
would not be yet--not yet--one more mile, or, at least, another half-mile.
So he advanced, growing weaker, breathing with more difficulty, but

still muttering, "Not yet--not just yet!"
The mountains had begun to spread apart. There were long ranges and
short. Here and there, a form that had seemed an integral part of some
range, defined itself as distinct from all others, lying like an island of
rock in a sea of unbroken desert. Willock was approaching the Wichita
Mountains from their southwestern extremity. As far as he could see in
one direction, the grotesque forms stretched in isolated chains or single
groups; but in the other, the end was reached, and beyond lay the
unbroken waste of the Panhandle.
Swaying on his great legs as with the weakness of an infant, he was
now very near the end of the system. A wall of granite, sparsely dotted
with green, rose above him to a height of about three hundred and fifty
feet. The length of this range was perhaps six miles, its thickness a mile.
Concealed among these ridges, he might be safe, but it was no longer
possible for him to stand erect; to climb the difficult ledges would be
impossible.
He sank to the ground, his eyes red and dimmed. For some time he
remained there inert, staring, his brain refusing to work. If yonder stood
a white object, between him and the mountain, a curious white
something with wheels, might it not be a covered wagon? No, it was a
mirage. But was it possible for a mirage to deceive him into the fancy
that a wagon stood only a few hundred feet away? Perhaps it was really
a wagon. He stared stupidly, not moving. There were no dream-horses
to this ghost-wagon. There was no sign of life. If captured by the
Indians, it would not have been left intact. But how came a wagon into
this barren world?
He stared up at the sun as if to assure himself that he was awake, then
laughed hoarsely, foolishly. The wagon did not melt away. He could
crawl that far, though in stretching forth his arm he might grasp but
empty air. He began to crawl forward, but the wagon did not move. As
it grew plainer in all its details, a new strength came to him. He strove
to rise, and after several efforts, succeeded. He staggered forward till
his hands grasped one of the wheels. The contact cleared his brain as by
a magic touch. It was no dream.
Supporting himself by the sideboard, he drew himself around to the
front, the only opening of the canvas room. He looked within. A first
look told him that the wagon was fitted up for a long journey, and that

its contents had not been disturbed by bandits or Indians. The second
look distinguished two objects that excluded from attention all others.
Upon a mattress at the rear of the wagon lay a woman, her face covered
by a cloth; and near the front seat stood a keg of water. It was
impossible to note the rigid form of the woman and the position of the
arms and hands without perceiving that she was dead.
The man recognized this truth but it made only a dim impression; that
keg of water meant life--and life was a thousandfold more to him than
death. He drew himself upon the seat, snatched at the tin cup beside the
keg, and drew out the cloth-covered corn-cob that stopped the flow.
Having slaked his thirst, there was mingled with his sense of ineffable
content, an overwhelming desire for sleep. He dropped on the second
mattress, on which bedclothes were carelessly strewn; his head found
the empty pillow that lay indented as it had been left by some vanished
sleeper. As his eyelids closed, he fell sound asleep. But for the rising
and falling of his powerful breast, he was as motionless as the body of
the woman.
Without, the afternoon sun slowly sank behind the mountains casting
long shadows over the plains; the wind swirled the sand in tireless
eddies, sometimes lifting it high in great sheets, forming sudden