Second only to her father’s
was Helen’s eager interest in the world about
her. The ride back to Desert Valley through the
rich moonlight was an experience never to be forgotten.
She and Howard alone in what appeared an enchanted
and limitless garden of silence and of slumber, their
horses’ feet falling without noise as though
upon deep carpets, the bright moon and its few attendant
stars working the harsh land of the day over into
a soft sweet country of subtle allurement the
picture of all this was to spring up vivid and vital
in many an idle hour of the days to follow.
Little speech passed between them that night:
they rode close together, they forgot the wagon which
rocked and jolted along somewhere far behind them;
they were content to be content without analysing.
And at the end of the ride, when she felt Alan’s
strong hands aiding her from her saddle, Helen sighed.
The next morning early she and her
father left Desert Valley, going straight to the professor’s
destination in the Last Ridge country. They did
not see Howard, who had breakfasted and ridden away
before dawn, leaving with the kitchen boy a brief
note of apology. The note said that his business
was urgent and that he would call to see them in a
day or so; further that Tod Barstow and Chuck Evans
had orders to haul their goods in the wagon for them
and to help them pitch camp.
Their departure was like a small procession.
The wagon, carrying all their household goods, went
ahead. Longstreet’s two pack-horses were
tied to the tail end of the wagon and trotted along
with slack tie-ropes. Behind them rode the Longstreets
upon saddle-horses, which Chuck Evans had brought
to the house for them with his employer’s compliments.
‘Al said you was to ride this
one, miss,’ said Chuck Evans.
It was the black mare on which Howard
had ridden into their camp the first morning Sanchia
or Helen.
‘What is her name?’ asked
Helen quite innocently when she had mounted.
Chuck Evans grinned his characteristic happy grin.
‘Funny thing about that mare’s name,’
he conceded brightly.
‘What do you mean?’ queried Helen.
‘Yesterday,’ he explained,
’I heard Al talking to her down to the stable.
He does talk to a horse more’n any man I know,
and what’s more they talk back to him.
’S a fact, miss. And what he said was,
“Helen, you little black devil, I wouldn’t
sell you for a couple million dollars; no, not now.”
Calling her Helen, understand?’
‘Well?’ asked the other Helen.
‘And,’ went on Chuck Evans,
’that mare’s been on the ranch six months
and never did I hear him call her another thing than
Sanchia.’
‘Sanchia?’ she repeated
after him. ‘What a pretty name!’
And then, more innocently than ever, ’I don’t
think I ever heard the name before. She was named
after somebody, I suppose?’
‘Sure,’ laughed Chuck.
’After a certain lady known in these parts as
Mrs. Murray. Her name is Sanchia.’
‘Oh!’ said Helen.
‘And,’ continued Chuck,
’that ain’t all. This morning, just
like he knew folks was going to ask her name, he tells
me: “Say, Chuck; this here mare’s
name, if anyone asks you, is Sweetheart. Don’t
it just suit her?” he says. And when you
come right down to it ’
‘Hey, Chuck,’ called Tod
Barstow from his high seat. ’Get a move
on. We better get started before it’s hot.’
So Chuck Evans departed and Helen
sat straight in the saddle, her eyes a little puzzled.
When her father rode to her side she was adjusting
a bluebird’s feather in her hatband. The
feather, pointing straight up, gave a stiff, almost
haughty look to the young woman’s headgear.
They crossed the big meadow, wound
for an hour among the little hills, and then began
a slow, gradual climb along a devious dusty road.
Less and ever less fertile grew the dry earth under
them, more still and hot and hostile the land into
which they journeyed. In three hours, jogging
along, they came to Last Ridge.
’There’s only one spot
up this way that’s fit to live in for more’n
an hour at the stretch,’ Barstow told them.
’There’s a spring and some shade there.
We’ll drive right under it, and from there up
we’ll have to finish the job monkey-style.’
He stopped his horses in a little
flat, just under a steep wall of reddish cliff.
Here he and Chuck Evans unhitched and here the horses
were tethered. Helen looked about her curiously,
and at first her heart sank. There was nothing
to greet her but rock and sweltering patches of sand
and gravelly soil, and sparse, harsh brush. She
turned and looked back toward the sweep of Desert
Valley; there she saw green fields, trees, grazing
stock. It was like the Promised Land compared
with this bleak desolate spot her father had chosen.
She turned to him, words of expostulation forming.
But his eyes were bright, his look triumphant.
He had already dismounted and was poking about here
and there, examining everything at hand from a sand-storm
stratum at the cliff’s foot to loose dirt in
the drifts and the hardy, wiry grass growing where
it could. Helen turned away with a sigh.
From here the two Desert Valley men
went forward on foot to show them the spot which Alan
Howard had chosen as the most likely site for a camp.
They walked to the end of the flat where the reddish,
walls shut in; here was an angle of cliff and in the
angle was a cleft some three or four feet wide.
They passed into this and found that it offered a
steep, winding way upward. But the distance was
not great, and in ten minutes they had come to the
top. Here again was a level space, a wide tableland,
offering less of the desert menace and hostility and
something more of charm and the promise of comfort.
For a gentle breeze stirred here, and off yonder
were scattered pines and cedars and in a clump of
trees was a ring of verdure. They went to it
and saw the spring. It was but a sort of mud-hole
of yellowish, thickish water. But water it was,
with green grass growing about it and with the shade
of dusty trees over it. Beyond were the strange-shaped
uplands, distant cliffs and peaks broken into a thousand
grotesque forms, with bands of colour in horizontal
strata across them as though they had been painted
with a mighty brush.
‘What though I have never been
here until this second?’ cried Longstreet triumphantly.
’I know it, all of it, every inch and millimetre
of it! I could have made a map of it and laid
the colours in. I have read of it, studied it I
have written of this country! Having been right
in everything else, am I to be mistaken in the matter
of its minerals? I said give me three months
to find gold! Why, it’s a matter to wonder
at if I don’t locate my mine in three days!’
The two men grinned readily.
Before now they had heard men talk with the gold
fever upon them.
‘There’s gold pretty near
everywhere,’ admitted Barstow, ’if a man
can make it pay. But right now I guess me and
Chuck had better start getting your stuff up the rocks.
Suit you all right here for a camp?’
Helen turned and looked toward the
south. There, broad and fertile below her, running
away across the miles, were the Howard acres.
She even made out the clutter of head-quarters buildings.
Somehow she fancied that the sweep of homely view
snatched from these bleak uplands something of their
loneliness. When her father announced that this
was just the spot he had longed for, Helen nodded
her approval. Here for a time was to be home.
Throughout the day and until dusk
the four of them laboured, making camp. Barstow
and Evans lugged the various articles, boxes, rolls
of bedding, up through the cleft in the rocks.
They had brought in the wagon-bed some loose boards
of various sizes; these they made into a rough floor.
At the four corners of the floor they erected studding
of two-by-four lumber. These they braced and
steadied; they nailed other lengths of two-by-four
material along the tops, outlining walls; they hacked
and sawed and hammered and nailed to such advantage
that in the end they had the misshapen frame of a
cabin, rafters and all. Then over the rafters
and along the sides they secured the canvas destined
for the purpose. Doors and windows were canvas
flaps; the sheet-iron stove was set up on four flat
stones for legs; the stovepipe was run through a hole
in the roof. And when Chuck Evans and Tod Barstow,
amateurs in the carpenter’s line, stood back
and wiped the sweat off their brown faces and looked
with fond and prideful eyes at their handiwork, Helen
and her father were no whit less delighted.
‘If you want more room after
a while,’ said Barstow, ’it’d be
easy to tack more sheds on and run canvas over them,
just the same as what we done. Me and Chuck
would come up most any time and lend a hand.’
The breeze stiffened and the crazy edifice shivered.
‘I don’t know as I’d
make it much bigger,’ said Evans. ’If
a real blow come on and the wind got inside Say,
Tod, how about a few guy ropes? Huh?’
Barstow agreed, and they brought what
ropes they had in the wagon and ‘staked her
out, same as if she was a runaway horse,’ as
Chuck put it. In other words, they ran one rope
from the rear end of the ridge of the house to the
base of a conveniently-located pine tree; then they
secured the second rope to the other end of the ridge-pole
and anchored it to a big boulder. Meanwhile
Helen opened some cans and made coffee on the newly-adjusted
stove and they sat on the grass by the spring and
made their evening meal. After which Barstow
and Evans went down to their wagon and returned to
Desert Valley. And James Edward Longstreet and
his daughter sat alone upon their camp-stools in front
of their new abode and looked off across the valley
and into the distances.
The day departed slowly, lingeringly.
The soft night came little by little, a misty veil
floating into a hollow yonder, a star shining, the
breeze strengthening and cooling. Before the
twilight was gone and while one might look for miles
across the billowing landscapes, they saw a horseman
riding down in the valley; he appeared hardly more
than a vague moving dot. And yet
‘It’s Mr. Howard!’ cried Helen.
Longstreet withdrew his straining
eyes and turned them wonderingly upon his daughter.
‘How in the world do you know?’ he asked.
Helen smiled, a quiet smile of transcendent wisdom.
‘Oh, I just knew he’d come over.’
she said.