Why should his thoughts turn to Lennie now? What had there been about that slim, tanned girl in her proud dress, faded from many washings? Had it been the feel of her young body through the thin slip? Or the memory of her cool lips? Or was it something deeper? Was it some response from deep within himself, some response of his own loneliness to the loneliness in her? He was no thinker, and he had no answers. He drew deep on the cigarette and snubbed it out in the sand. He got up and went among the horses, then he moved beyond the rocks, where he stood listening to the night. There was no sound. As it was growing gray in the east he shook Dutch awake. The big man got up silently, and Considine then stretched out and slept. When he was awakened scarcely an hour later, Dutch was making coffee over a tiny, smokeless fire. Hardy was saddling his horse, and the Kiowa had slipped away somewhere before daylight. Considine saddled his own horse and that of the Kiowa, then went to the fire for coffee.
The Kiowa returned, coming in among the boulders, and squatted by the fire.
“Fourteen … they have fresh scalps.”
They looked at him, afraid to ask the question that was in all their minds.
“No long hair … no woman.”
The Kiowa drew on a cigarette, and gulped coffee. “They are gone now, but they follow a trail. They expect more scalps today.” “Dave’s no fool,” Dutch said. “He’ll know those Indians are trailing him.” “That Pete Runyon,” Hardy said, “he’ll be right behind us. We’d better light a shuck.”
The desert morning opened around them, bright and amazingly clear. The rocks stood out in sharp relief, the distant mountains seemed close by, and only the solemn finger of beckoning smoke touched an ominous note. But the smoke, like their hard-hewn faces and the smell of smoke and sweat, was of the desert…
CHAPTER IX
When it was quite dark, Dave Spanyer took up the lead rope and started out from among the rocks. He had discarded the saddle, for it was more weight than it was worth, and he could come back for it later, if such an opportunity developed. When the bulk of Packsaddle Mountain was behind them, he turned left into the velvety darkness. He could see only a little, but it was light enough to keep from stumbling over rocks or blundering into cactus. The mountains before them were a black wall offering no identifying features. Lennie walked beside him, and when possible they kept to the soft sand. When passing through occasional patches of desert brush they carefully held the branches aside so they would not brush against their clothing, a sound easily heard and recognized in the desert night.
At last the sudden dampness told them they faced the canyon, for cool air usually came down those canyons, and to a knowing man it was an indication. Once within the canyon, they were engulfed in a vaster, deeper darkness, for the walls rose five hundred feet above them. The sand was firm from recent floods following the rain, and it made walking easier, but it would leave tracks. Spanyer blessed his luck in having a daughter who did not complain. Lennie was a girl to make a mother of men, not weak, sniveling mama’s boys. She was a good walker, too, and better than the average man with a rifle. When they had come two miles into the canyon, they stopped to rest. It would be nearly morning now, although still night-dark in the canyon. Since their start they had come six or seven miles.
“Used to be a shanty up there”—he gestured to the mountains ahead, and spoke in a whisper— “and a cave. It was a hideout some of the boys used. There’s a spring.”
Something scurried in the darkness. The horse shifted his feet. Suddenly something bounded in the night, sticks cracked, the brush whispered. The horse jerked up its head at the sounds. Spanyer kept an iron grip on the lead rope, and after a minute the horse quieted.
“Lion,” Spanyer explained. “Probably smelled the horse before he smelled us.” The stars kept their shy lamps alight in these last hours of darkness. The canyon narrowed and the walls seemed higher; but they had begun to climb, and after a while the canyon widened out and they found themselves in a small basin. Knee-high grass grew around them, and they could smell the freshness of water.
“We’ll rest,” said Spanyer. “Come daybreak, I’ll get my bearings.” Lennie sat down and cradled her head in her arms, which rested on her knees. She thought of the tall rider with the easy walk—more like that of a woodsman than a cowhand. She could imagine him cutting wood for the fire while she fixed dinner, or washing in a tin basin with his sleeves rolled up over muscular arms, his hair splashed with water and sparkling where the drops caught the sun. He did not seem like an outlaw—and her own father had changed when her mother married him. Maybe he would come west … When they got to California she would look around for another place, close to Pa’s… She knew she was dreaming. She knew she would not see him again. For all she knew, he might even now be dead, his body propped up to be photographed, the way they often did with dead outlaws. Or he might be in prison. Yet she could not admit either possibility, for she knew, deep down within her, that she loved him, and only him. She knew, too, that she was not cut out to be an outlaw’s woman. Oh, she could stand the hard travel, the rough living and all … she had done that with Pa ever since leaving school; but she knew what she wanted—a home, a nice ranch with cattle feeding on the hills, a stream somewhere close by, shaded trees, and the flowers she would plant “We’ll move now,” her father said. “I can make out the shape of things.” He was an exciting man … she blushed with the memory of how she had felt in his arms … but what must he think of her? Scarcely dressed, and soaked to the skin like that.
They moved on, and the climbing was steady now. In some places it was difficult for the horse, and Lennie found herself gasping for breath. How her father made it she could not imagine, but he seemed made of rawhide and steel wire, for all the effect. At last they reached a cluster of rocks among which there was a spring, partly shaded by mesquite, cottonwood, and willow. From the edge of the rocks one could see all around.
They had come out on top of the canyon, and it lay like a tremendous gash in the mountain, falling away steeply into its own darkness below them. “They may not find us,” Spanyer said. He glanced at her. “I got to sleep, Lennie. Can you stay awake?”
She did not want to sleep. She wanted to stay awake and think. The Apaches seemed farther away, more unreal than Considine … what was his first name? Oddly enough, she had never heard him called anything but Considine. She knew the memory of him would fade out … it would grow dim and she would forget, and she did not want to forget, for it was the only memory she wished to hold close. There was so little else. She had been abysmally unhappy at school, although she was a good student. She could remember faintly her mother, a slender, lovely woman who had been tender and thoughtful, but Lennie had been at a friend’s when her mother died … only vague impressions remained. Pa was brusque, often stern, and she knew he was worried about her. Pa was a man who was sure in most things. He handled horses and cattle with easy confidence, and among men he walked his own way, never going around anybody. She knew he was respected … even feared.
Back in Socorro where they had lived for a time she had been surprised to hear the respect with which he was addressed by men like the banker, the sheriff, and the big cattlemen around. He was beholden to no man, and the gun that rode his hip was a known thing. Yet it was not the gun that counted; it was the fact that Pa respected himself.
Those cold eyes of his could chill men … she had heard them say it. Yet in his own rough way he was a good father, and a kind one, even though he often said and did the wrong thing.
Her father had that quality of desert and mountain men that he could sleep when he wished, and he slept now, curled up on the sand. Several times she got up from where she sat and looked around, careful to show no movement to any possible watcher below. Already she had acquired from her father those habits of care and eternal watchfulness so essential to the wilderness life among hostile Indians.