The Desert Valley | Page 4

arm. Instead, her fingers tightened
as she suddenly put her face forward and whispered defiantly:
'I mean spooky!'
'Helen,' he expostulated, 'where did you get such ideas?'
'You heard the old Indian legends,' she insisted, not more than half
frightened but conscious of an eerie influence of the still loneliness and
experiencing the first shiver of excitement as she stirred her own fancy.
'Who knows but there is some foundation for them?'
He snorted his disdain and scholarly contempt.
'Then,' said Helen, resorting to argument, 'where did that fire come
from? Who made it? Why has he disappeared like this?'
'Even you,' said her father, quick as always to join issue where sound
argument offered itself as a weapon, 'will hardly suppose that a spook
eats bacon and drinks coffee,'

'The--the ghost,' said Helen, with a humorous glance in her eyes, 'might
have whisked him away by the hair of the head!'
He shook her hand off and strode forward impatiently. Again and again
he shouted 'Hello!' and 'Ho, there! Ho, I say!' There came no answer.
The bacon was growing cold; the fire burning down. He turned a
perplexed face towards Helen's eager one.
'It is odd,' he said irritably. He was not a man to relish being baffled.
Helen had picked up something which she had found near the spring,
and was studying it intently. He came to her side to see what it was.
The thing was a freshly-peeled willow wand, left upright where one
end had been thrust down into the soft earth. The other end had been
split; into the cleft was thrust a single feather from a bluebird's wing.
Helen's eyes looked unusually large and bright. She turned her head,
glancing over her shoulder.
'Some one was here just a minute ago,' she cried softly. 'He was
camping for the night. Something frightened him away. It might have
been the noise we made. Or--what do you think, papa?'
'I never attempt to solve a problem until the necessary data are given
me,' he announced academically.
'Or,' went on Helen, at whose age one does not bother about such trifles
as necessary data, 'he may not have run away at all. He may be hiding
in the bushes, listening to us. There are all kinds of people in the desert.
Don't you remember how the sheriff came to San Juan just before we
left? He was looking for a man who had killed a miner for his gold
dust.'
'You must curb a proclivity for such fanciful trash.' He cleared his
throat for the utterance. He put out his hand and Helen hastily slipped
her own into it. Silently they returned to their own camp site, the girl
carrying in her free hand the wand tipped with the bluebird feather.
Several times they paused and looked back. There was nothing but the

glow of the dwindling fire and the sweep of sand, covered sparsely with
ragged bushes. New stars flared out; the spirit of the night descended
upon the desert. As the world seemed to draw further and further away
from them, these two beings, strange to the vastness engulfing them,
huddled closer together. They spoke little, always in lowered voices.
Between words they were listening, awaiting that which did not come.

Chapter II
Superstition Pool
Physically tired as they were, the night was a restless one for both
Helen and her father. They ate their meal in silence for the most part,
made their beds close together, picketed their horses near by and said
their listless 'good nights' early. Each heard the other turn and fidget
many times before both went to sleep. Helen saw how her father, with a
fine assumption of careless habit, laid a big new revolver close to his
head.
The girl dozed and woke when the pallid moon shone upon her face.
She lifted herself upon her elbow. The moonlight touched upon the
willow stick she had thrust into the sand at her bedside; the feather was
upright and like a plume. She considered it gravely; it became the
starting-point of many romantic imaginings. Somehow it was a token;
of just exactly what, to be sure, she could not decide. Not definitely,
that is; it was always indisputable that the message of the bluebird is
one of good fortune.
A less vivid imagination than Helen's would have found a tang of
ghostliness in the night. The crest of the ridge over which they had
come through the dusk now showed silvery white; white also were
some dead branches of desert growth--they looked like bones. Always
through the intense silence stirred an indistinguishable breath like a
shiver. Individual bushes assumed grotesque shapes; when she looked
long and intently at one she began to fancy that it moved. She scoffed
at herself,