The Man of the Desert (17 page)

When it was evident that arguments and tears were of no use and Amelia Ellen was determined to go home with or without her, Hazel withdrew to the front porch and took counsel with the desert in its morning brightness, with the luring purple mountains and the smiling sky. Go back on the train that would stop at the station in half an hour, with the desert there and the wonderful land and its strange, wistful people, and not even glimpse him whom she loved? Go back with the letter still in her possession and her message still undelivered? Never! Surely she wasn’t afraid to stay long enough to send for him. The woman who fed and sheltered them for the night would be her protector. She’d stay. Some refined woman must live somewhere nearby where she could go for a few days until her errand was performed. And what was her hospital training worth if it didn’t give her some independence? Out here in the wild free West, women had to protect themselves. She could surely stay in the uncomfortable quarters where she was for another day until she could get word to the missionary. Then she could decide whether to proceed on her journey alone to California or go back home. There was really no reason why she shouldn’t travel alone if she chose. Plenty of young women did, and, anyway, the emergency wasn’t of her choosing. Amelia Ellen would make herself sick fretting over her Burley, that was plain, if she were detained even a few hours.

Hazel came back to the nearly demented Amelia Ellen with her chin tilted firmly and a straight little set of her sweet lips that indicated resolve. The train arrived in a brief space of time, and, weeping but firm, Amelia Ellen boarded it, dismayed at the thought of leaving her dear young lady, yet stubbornly determined to go. Hazel gave her the ticket and plenty of money, charged the conductor to look after her, waved a brave farewell, and turned back to the desert alone.

A brief conference with the woman who had entertained them, who was also the wife of the station agent, revealed that the missionary hadn’t yet returned from his journey. But a message received from him a few days earlier spoke of his probable return on the next day or the day after. The woman advised Hazel to go to the fort where visitors were always welcomed and where they had luxuries more suited to the stranger’s custom. She eyed her guest’s dainty apparel enviously as she spoke. Hazel, keenly alive to the meaning of her look, realized that the woman, like the missionary, judged her unfit for desert life. She was half determined to stay where she was until the missionary returned and show she could adapt herself to any surroundings, but she saw the woman was anxious for her to go. It probably put her out to have a guest from a world different from her own.

The woman told her a trusty Indian messenger was there from the fort and riding back soon. If the lady cared she could get a horse and go under his escort. She opened her eyes in wonder when Hazel asked if a woman was to be in the party and whether she couldn’t leave her work for a while and ride over with them if she paid her well for the service.

“Oh, you needn’t bring none o’ them fine lady airs out here!” she declared rudely. “We-all ain’t got time fer no sech foolery. You needn’t be afraid to go back with Joe. He takes care of the women at the fort. He’ll look after you fine. You mebbe kin hire a horse to ride an’ strop yer bag on. Yer trunk ye kin leave here.”

Hazel, half frightened at the position she let herself be placed in, considered the woman’s words and, when she saw the Indian’s stolid countenance, decided to accept his escort. He was an old man with furrowed face and sad eyes that looked as if they could tell great secrets, but something in his face made her trust him.

An hour later, with deep excitement and her necessary baggage strapped to the back of the saddle on a wild-looking pony, Hazel mounted and rode away behind the solemn, silent Indian. She was going to the fort to ask for shelter, until her errand was accomplished, of the only women in that region who’d likely take her in. She had a feeling the thing she was doing was a wild, unconventional act and would come under the grave condemnation of her aunt and all her New York friends. She was thankful they were far away and couldn’t interfere, for somehow she felt she must do it anyway. She must put the letter, with her own hands, into the possession of its owner.

It was a glorious morning. The earth and the heavens seemed newly made for the day. Hazel felt a gladness that wouldn’t fade, even when she thought of poor Amelia Ellen crouched in her corner of the sleeper, miserable at her desertion, yet determined to go. She thought of the dear mother and wondered if she could know now how she was trying to fulfill her last wish. It was pleasant to think she knew and was glad, and Hazel felt as though her presence were near and protecting her.

The silent Indian made a few remarks. He rode ahead with a thoughtful expression, like a student whose thoughts aren’t to be disturbed. He nodded gravely in answer to the questions Hazel asked him whenever they stopped to water the horses, but he volunteered no information beyond calling her attention to a lame foot her pony was developing.

Several times Joe got down, examined the pony’s foot and shook his head, with a grunt of worried disapproval. Presently, as the miles passed, Hazel noticed the pony’s lameness and became alarmed lest he’d break down altogether in the midst of the desert. Then what would the Indian do? Certainly not give her his horse and walk, as the missionary had. She couldn’t expect every man in this desert to be like the one who’d cared for her before. What a foolish girl she was to get herself into this fix! And now there was no father to send out search parties for her and no missionary at home to find her!

The dust, the day’s growing heat, and the anxiety began to wear on her. She was tired and hungry. At noon the Indian dismounted beside a waterhole where the water tasted of sheep that had passed through a short time before. He handed her a package of corn bread and cold bacon and withdrew to the horses’ company for his own siesta. She was inclined to put her head down on the coarse grass and weep for her folly in coming out to this wild country alone, or at least in staying when Amelia Ellen deserted her. Then the question suddenly occurred to her: How would Amelia Ellen have figured in this morning’s journey on horseback? And instead of weeping she fell to laughing almost hysterically.

She munched the corn bread—the bacon she couldn’t eat—and wondered if the woman at the stopping place realized what an impossible lunch she provided for her guest. But here was one of the tests. She wasn’t worth much if a little thing like coarse food annoyed her so much. She drank some of the bitter water and bravely ate a second piece of corn bread and tried to hope her pony would be all right after his rest.

But it was evident after they went a mile or two farther that the pony was growing worse. He lagged and limped and stopped, and it seemed almost cruel to urge him on. Yet what could be done? The Indian rode behind now, watching him and speaking in low grunts to him occasionally, and finally they came in sight of a speck of a building in the distance. Then the Indian spoke.

Pointing toward the distant building, which seemed too tiny for human habitation, he said, “Aneshodi hogan. Him friend me. Lady stay. Me come back good horse. Pony no more. He bad!”

Dismay filled Hazel’s heart. She gathered that her guide wished to leave her by the way while he went on for another horse, and maybe he’d return and maybe not. Meanwhile, what kind of place was he leaving her in? Would there be a woman there? “Aneshodi” sounded as if it might be a woman’s name.

“Is this Aneshodi a woman?” she questioned.

The Indian shook his head and grunted. “Na, na. Aneshodi, Aneshodi. Him friend me. Him good friend. No woman!”

“Is there no woman in the house?” she asked anxiously.

“Na! Him heap good man. Good hogan. Lady stay. Rest.”

Suddenly her pony stumbled and nearly fell. She saw she couldn’t depend on him for long now.

“Couldn’t I walk with you?” she asked, her eyes pleading. “I’d rather walk than stay. Is it far?”

The Indian nodded his head vigorously.

“Lady no walk. Many suns lady walk. Great mile. Lady stay. Me ride fast. Back sundown.” He pointed to the sun which was even now beginning its downward course.

Hazel saw there was nothing to do but what the Indian said, and indeed his words seemed reasonable, but she was very frightened. What kind of place was she to stay in? As they neared it, she saw only a little weather-beaten shanty, with a curiously familiar look, as if she’d passed that way before. A few chickens were picking about the yard, and a vine grew over the door. But she saw no sign of a human being around, and the desert stretched wide and barren on every side. Her old fear of its vastness returned, and she began to feel as Amelia Ellen had. She realized now that she should have gone with Amelia Ellen back to civilization and found somebody who’d come with her on her errand. But then the letter would have been delayed longer!

The thought of the letter kept up her courage, and she descended doubtfully from her pony’s back and followed the Indian to the shanty door. The vine growing luxuriantly over the window and casement and door frame reassured her somewhat, though she couldn’t tell just why. Perhaps somebody with a sense of beauty lived in the ugly little building, and a man with a sense of beauty couldn’t be wholly bad. But how was she to stay alone in a man’s house where no woman lived? Perhaps the man would have a horse to lend or sell them. She’d offer any sum he wanted if she could only get to a safe place.

But the Indian didn’t knock at the door as she expected him to do. Instead he stooped to the lower step, put his hand into a small opening in the woodwork of the step, fumbled there a minute, and presently brought out a key he fitted into the lock. Then he threw the door wide open to her astonished gaze.

“Him friend me!” explained the Indian again.

He walked into the room with the manner of a partial proprietor of the place, looked about, stooped down to the fireplace where a fire was neatly laid, and set it blazing cheerfully. Then he took the water bucket, filled it, and poured some water into the kettle, swinging it over the blaze to heat.

Turning, he spoke again. “Lady stay. Me come back—soon. Sun no go down. Me come back. Good horse get lady.”

“But where is the owner of this house? What will he think of my being here when he comes back?” said Hazel, more frightened than ever at the prospect of being left. She hadn’t expected to stay entirely alone. She’d counted on finding someone in the house.

“Aneshodi way off. Not come back one—two—day mebbe! He know me. He me friend. Lady stay! All right!”

Her eyes round with fear, Hazel watched her protector mount and ride away. She almost called after him not to leave her. Then she remembered this was part of a woman’s life in Arizona, and she was being tried. By just such things the missionary had meant she was unfit for life out here. She’d stay and bear the loneliness and fright. She’d prove, at least to herself, she had the courage of any missionary. She wouldn’t bear the ignominy of weakness and failure. She’d be shamed all her life to know she failed in this trying time.

She watched the Indian riding rapidly away as if he were in a hurry. Once the suspicion crossed her mind that perhaps he lamed her horse on purpose and left her here to get rid of her. Perhaps this was the home of some dreadful person who’d return soon and harm her.

She turned quickly to see what manner of place it was, for she was too excited at first over the prospect of being left to notice it much, except to be surprised it had chairs, a fireplace, and a look of comparative comfort. Now she looked about to discover what sort of person the owner might be. Glancing at the table near the fireplace she saw an open book, and the words that caught her vision were, “
He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.
”

With a start she turned the book over and found it was a Bible, bound in plain, strong covers, with large, clear print. It lay open as if the owner had been reading it only a short time before and was called away suddenly.

With a sigh of relief she sank down in the big chair by the fire and let the excited tears have their way. Somehow her fear vanished with that sentence. The owner of the house couldn’t be too bad when he kept his Bible around and open to that psalm, her psalm, her missionary’s psalm! And the very words themselves assured her, as if they’d been sent to remind her of her new trust in an unseen Power. If she was making the Most High her dwelling place continually, surely she was under His protection continually and didn’t need to be afraid anywhere, for she was abiding in Him. The thought gave her a strange new sense of peace and safety.

After a moment she sat up, wiping away the tears, and looked around. Perhaps this was the home of some friend of her missionary. She felt comforted about staying here now. She lifted her eyes to the wall above the mantel, and, lo, she saw the smiling face of her dear friend, the mother, who had just gone home to heaven. And beneath it—as if that weren’t enough to bring a throb of understanding and joy to her heart—hung her own jeweled riding whip she’d left on the desert a year ago and forgot.

Suddenly, with a cry of joy, she rose and clasped her hands over her heart, relief and happiness in every line of her face.

“It’s his home! I’ve come to his own house!” she cried and looked about her with joy.

This then was where he lived. His books were there. Here was his chair where he sat and rested or studied. His hands had left the Bible open at her psalm, his psalm—their psalm! His bed stood over behind the screen, and at the other end the tiny table and the dishes in the closet! Everything was in place, and careful neatness reigned, yet with an air of manlike uncertainty about some things.

She walked from one end of the big room to the other and back again, studying every detail. She revelled in the thought that now, whatever happened, she might take back with her a picture of him in his own quiet room when he laid aside his work for a while and when, if he ever had time and allowed himself, he perhaps thought of her.