Overland Red | Page 4

again visited the grotto. The place
was damp and cool, glistening with beads of moisture, but the flow
from the roof-crevice had ceased. Still he thought there must be plenty
of water beneath the rocks of the stream-bed. He would dig for it.
Another week, and he became uneasy. The stream had disappeared as
though poured into a colossal crevice. A few feet below the gravel he
struck solid rock. He tried dynamite unsuccessfully. Then he hoarded
the drippings from the grotto crevice till he had filled his canteen.
Carefully he stowed his gold in a chamois pouch and prepared to leave
the cañon. His burro had strayed during the week of drought--was
probably dead beside some dry water-hole.
The prospector set out to cross the range in the light of the stars.
Fearful that he might be seen, panic warped his reasoning. He planned
to journey south along the foothills, until opposite the desert town and
then cross over to it. If he approached from such a direction, no one
would guess his original starting-place. He knew of an unfailing
water-hole two days' journey from the cañon. This water-hole was far
out of his way, but his canteen supply would more than last till he
reached it.
Then Fate, the fate that had dogged his every step since first he
ventured into the solitudes, closed up and crept at his heels. He became
more morose and strangely fearful. His vision, refined by the wasting
of his body, created shadows that lay about his feet like stagnant pools,
shadows where no shadows should be.

Ominous was his fall as he crossed an arroyo. The canteen, slung over
his shoulder, struck a sharp point of rock that started one of the seams.
The leak was infinitesimal. The felt cover of the canteen absorbed the
drip, which evaporated. When he arrived at the water-hole, that was dry.
His canteen felt strangely light. He could not remember having used so
much water. He changed his plan. He struck straight from the hills
toward the railroad. He knew that eventually he would, as he journeyed
west, cross it, perhaps near a water-tank.
Toward the blinding afternoon of that day he saw strange lakes and
pools spread out upon the distant sand and inverted mountain ranges
stretching to the horizon.
Fate crept closer to his heels, waiting with the dumb patience of the
desert to claim the struggling, impotent puppet whose little day was all
but spent.
He stumbled across the blazing bars of steel that marked the railroad.
His empty canteen clattered on the ties as he fell. He got to his knees
and dragged himself from the track. He laughed, for he had thwarted
Fate this once; he would not be run over by the train. He lay limp,
wasted, scarcely breathing.
Serenely Fate crouched near him, patient, impassive....
He heard a man speak and another answer. He felt an arm beneath his
head, and water.... Water!
He drank, and all at once his strength flamed up. It was not water they
gave him; it was merely the taste of it--a mockery. He wanted more ...
all!
He lurched to his feet, struggling with a bearded giant that held him
from his desire--to drink until he could drink no more--to die drinking
the water they had taken from him even as they gave it. He fought
blindly. Fate, disdaining further patience, arose and flung itself about
his feet. He stumbled. A flash wiped all things from his vision and the
long night came swiftly.

CHAPTER III
RAGGED ROMANCE
At the wide gate of the mountain ranch stood the girl. Her black
saddle-pony Boyar fretted to be away. Glancing back through the
cavernous shade of the live-oaks, the girl hesitated before opening the
gate. A little breeze, wayfaring through Moonstone Cañon and on up to
the mountain ranch, touched the girl's cheek and she breathed deeply of
its cool fragrance.
The wide gate swung open, and Louise Lacharme, curbing Black Boyar,
rode out of the shadows into the hot light of the morning, singing as she
rode.
Against the soft gray of the cañon wall flamed a crimson flower like a
pomegranate bud. Across the road ran the cool mountain stream. Away
and away toward the empty sky the ragged edges of the cliffs were
etched sharply upon the blue.
The road ran swiftly round the eastern wall of the cañon. Louise, as
fragrantly bright as morning sunshine on golden flowers, laughed as the
pony's lithe bound tore the silver of the ford to swirling beads and
blade-like flashes.
On the rise beyond, the girl drew rein at the beginning of the Old
Meadow Trail, a hidden trail that led to a mountain meadow of ripe
grasses, groups of trees, and the enchantment of seclusion.
The