FullReads

The pony stood not ten feet distant. At his master’s abrupt appearance he merely raised his head, a wisp of grass in the corner of his mouth, without attempting to move away. Buck Johnson walked confidently to him, fumbling in his side pocket for the piece of sugar with which he habitually soothed Button’s sophisticated palate. His hand encountered Estrella’s letter. He drew it out and opened it.

“Dear Buck,” it read, “I am going away. I tried to be good, but I can’t. It’s too lonesome for me. I’m afraid of the horses and the cattle and the men and the desert. I hate it all. I tried to make you see how I felt about it, but you couldn’t seem to see. I know you’ll never forgive me, but I’d go crazy here. I’m almost crazy now. I suppose you think I’m a bad woman, but I am not. You won’t believe that. Its’ true though. The desert would make anyone bad. I don’t see how you stand it. You’ve been good to me, and I’ve really tried, but it’s no use. The country is awful. I never ought to have come. I’m sorry you are going to think me a bad woman, for I like you and admire you, but nothing, NOTHING could make me stay here any longer.” She signed herself simply Estrella Sands, her maiden name.

Buck Johnson stood staring at the paper for a much longer time than was necessary merely to absorb the meaning of the words. His senses, sharpened by the stress of the last sixteen hours, were trying mightily to cut to the mystery of a change going on within himself. The phrases of the letter were bald enough, yet they conveyed something vital to his inner being. He could not understand what it was.

Then abruptly he raised his eyes.

Before him lay the desert, but a desert suddenly and miraculously changed, a desert he had never seen before. Mile after mile it swept away before him, hot, dry, suffocating, lifeless. The sparse vegetation was grey with the alkali dust. The heat hung choking in the air like a curtain. Lizards sprawled in the sun, repulsive. A rattlesnake dragged its loathsome length from under a mesquite. The dried carcass of a steer, whose parchment skin drew tight across its bones, rattled in the breeze. Here and there rock ridges showed with the obscenity of so many skeletons, exposing to the hard, cruel sky the earth’s nakedness. Thirst, delirium, death, hovered palpable in the wind; dreadful, unconquerable, ghastly.

The desert showed her teeth and lay in wait like a fierce beast. The little soul of man shrank in terror before it.

Buck Johnson stared, recalling the phrases of the letter, recalling the words of his foreman, Jed Parker. “It’s too lonesome for me,” “I’m afraid,” “I hate it all,” “I’d go crazy here,” “The desert would make anyone bad,” “The country is awful.” And the musing voice of the old cattleman, “I wonder if she’ll like the country!” They reiterated themselves over and over; and always as refrain his own confident reply, “Like the country? Sure! Why SHOULDN’T she?”

And then he recalled the summer just passing, and the woman who had made no fuss. Chance remarks of hers came back to him, remarks whose meaning he had not at the time grasped, but which now he saw were desperate appeals to his understanding. He had known his desert. He had never known hers.

With an exclamation Buck Johnson turned abruptly back to the arroyo. Button followed him, mildly curious, certain that his master’s reappearance meant a summons for himself.

Down the miniature cliff the man slid, confidently, without hesitation, sure of himself. His shoulders held squarely, his step elastic, his eye bright, he walked to the fearful, shapeless bundle now lying motionless on the flat surface of the alkali.

Brent Palmer had fallen into a grim silence, but Estrella still moaned. The cattleman drew his knife and ripped loose the bonds. Immediately the flaps of the wet rawhide fell apart, exposing to the new daylight the two bound together. Buck Johnson leaned over to touch the woman’s shoulder.

“Estrella,” said he gently.

Her eyes came open with a snap, and stared into his, wild with the surprise of his return.

“Estrella,” he repeated, “how old are you?”

She gulped down a sob, unable to comprehend the purport of his question.

“How old are you, Estrella?” he repeated again.

“Twenty-one,” she gasped finally.

“Ah!” said he.

He stood for a moment in deep thought, then began methodically, without haste, to cut loose the thongs that bound the two together.

When the man and the woman were quite freed, he stood for a moment, the knife in his hand, looking down on them. Then he swung himself into the saddle and rode away, straight down the narrow arroyo, out beyond its lower widening, into the vast plains the hither side of the Chiricahuas. The alkali dust was snatched by the wind from beneath his horse’s feet. Smaller and smaller he dwindled, rising and falling, rising and falling in the monotonous cow-pony’s lope. The heat shimmer veiled him for a moment, but he reappeared. A mirage concealed him, but he emerged on the other side of it. Then suddenly he was gone. The desert had swallowed him up.