CHAPTER XIV

THE STORM

“There ain’t a God almighty thing that we can do ’til th’ mornin’.”

The old Pardners, when their day’s work was finished, climbed slowly down from the mouth of the tunnel to the creek and, crossing the little stream, climbed as slowly up to the level above. As his head and shoulders came above the top of the steep bank, Thad, who was in the lead, stopped.

“What’s the matter?” called Bob, who was close behind in the narrow path with his head on a level with his pardner’s feet. “Gittin’ so old you can’t make the grade without takin’ a rest, be you?”

“Whar’s the little pinto hoss?” demanded Thad in an injured tone, as if the absence of Nugget was a personal grievance.

Bob climbed to his pardner’s side.

“Looks like Marta ain’t back yet.”

“She ought to be,” said Thad with an anxious eye on the threatening clouds that now hung dark and heavy over the upper cañon.

“Stopped at Saint Jimmy’s, I reckon,” returned Bob, who was also studying the angry sky. “Goin’ to storm some, ain’t it?”

“The gal sure can’t miss seein’ that,” returned the other, “an’ she ought to know that when we do get a storm this time of the year, it’s always a buster. I wish she was home.”

“Mebby she’s over to Edwards’,” said Bob hopefully.

They went on toward the house until they gained an unobstructed view of the neighboring cabin and premises.

“Her hoss ain’t there neither,” said Thad, and again he looked up at the dark, rolling clouds.

“Oh, she’ll be comin’ along in a minute or two,” offered Bob soothingly, but his voice betrayed the anxiety his words were meant to hide.

Marta was no novice in the mountains, and the old Pardners knew that it was not like their girl to ignore the near approach of a storm that would in a few moments change the murmuring cañon creek into a wild, roaring flood that no living horse could ford or swim. The trail, on its course from her home to the Burtons, and to Oracle, crossed and recrossed the creek many times, and should the storm break in the upper cañon at the right moment, it would easily be possible for the girl to be trapped at some point between the cañon walls and the bends of the stream, and forced to spend at least the night there. More than this, there was a place where the trail followed for some distance up the narrow, sandy bed of the creek itself, between sheer cliffs. The Pardners and Marta had more than once seen a rolling, plunging, raging wall of water come thundering down the cañon from a storm above, with a mad force that no power on earth could check or face, and with a swiftness that no horse could outrun.

A few scattered drops of rain came pattering down. The Pardners without another word hurried over to Edwards’ cabin.

The younger man, who was coming up the path from his work, greeted them with a cheery, “Hello, neighbors--looks like we’re going to have a shower.” Then as he came closer and saw their faces, his own countenance changed and the old look of fear came into his eyes. “Why, what’s the matter--what has happened?” He glanced quickly around, as if half expecting to see some one else near-by.

“Marta ain’t come home,” said Thad.

And in the same instant Bob asked:

“Did she say anythin’ to you about bein’ specially late gettin’ back to-day?”

Edwards drew a long breath of relief.

“No, she said nothing to me about her plans. But really, there is no cause for worry, is there? She always stops at the Burtons’ with the mail on her way back, you know. Perhaps she stayed longer than she realized. Come on in out of the wet,” he added, as the pattering drops of rain grew more plentiful. “She will be along presently, I am sure.”

With a glance at the fast-approaching storm, Thad said quickly:

“You don’t understand, son, we ain’t worried about the gal gettin’ wet.” And then in a few words he explained the grave possibilities of the situation. “If she stops at Saint Jimmy’s, it’ll be all right, but if she’s a-tryin’ to make it home and gets caught in the cañon----“

A gust of wind and a swirling dash of rain punctuated his words.

Old Bob started for the cañon trail. The others followed at his heels. When they reached the narrow road a short distance away they halted for a second.

“There’s fresh hoss tracks,” said Bob. “Somebody’s been ridin’ this way. ’Tain’t the pinto, though.”

“It’s the Lizard probably,” said Edwards. “I saw him pass on his way up the cañon this forenoon.”

Half running, they hurried on. Before they reached the first turn in the cañon, a fierce downpour drenched them to the skin. The falling flood of water, driven by the blast that swept down from the mountain heights and swirled around the cliffs and angles of the cañon walls, hissed and roared with fury.

“There goes any chance of strikin’ her trail,” shouted Thad grimly.

The three men bent their heads and broke into a run.

At the beginning of that stretch of the trail which follows the bed of the creek, Bob stopped abruptly.

“Look here,” he said to the others, “we’ve got to use some sense an’ go at this thing right. If we all of us go ahead like this, we’ll all be caught on t’other side of the creek when the rise gets here. If she ain’t already in the cañon, she might be at Saint Jimmy’s, and she might not. There’s a chance that the gal got started home from the store late an’ was afraid to try comin’ this way, and so left Oracle by the Tucson highway, figurin’ to cut across the hills somewheres to the old cañon road an’ try crossin’ the creek lower down, like we do sometimes. It’ll be plumb dark pretty quick an’ if she ain’t at Saint Jimmy’s, there ought to two of us cover both trails--the one by Burtons’ an’ the one that goes direct, an’ there ought to one of us stay on this side of the creek in case she has made it the other way ’round. You won’t be much good nohow, son,” he continued to Edwards, “if it comes to huntin’ the hills out, ’cause you don’t know the country like we do. Suppose you go back down to the lower crossin’ where the old road comes into the cañon, you know--the way you come. If she don’t show up there in another hour or two, you’ll know she didn’t go that way. There ain’t another thing that you can do ’til daylight.”

“You men know best,” said Edwards and turned to go.

Thad caught the younger man by the arm.

“Wait.” For a second he paused, then spoke slowly: “It might not be a bad idea while you’re down that way to drop in on the Lizard.”

“Come on,” cried Bob. “We sure got to run for it if we beat the rise into this cut.”

The Pardners disappeared in the gray, swirling downpour. Edwards, with a new fear in his heart, ran with all his strength down the cañon. But it was not alone the thought of the coming flood that made his heart sink with sickening dread--it was the memory of the Lizard’s face that day when the fellow had first told him of Marta.

By the time he reached the cabin, Hugh heard the roaring thunder of the flood. For an instant he paused. Had the two old prospectors gained the higher ground beyond the stretch of trail in the creek bottom in time? He turned as if to go back, then came the thought he could not now retrace his steps beyond the first crossing. Whether the Pardners were safe or were caught by the flood, it was too late now for human aid to reach them.

Again he hurried on down the cañon. When he came to the place where he had made his camp that first night in the Cañon of Gold, it was almost dark, but over the spot where he had built his fire and spread his blanket bed he could see a leaping, racing torrent that filled the channel of the creek from bank to bank.

For nearly three hours he waited where the old road crossed the stream. Convinced at last that Marta had not come that way, he went on down the cañon, to the adobe house where the Lizard lived with his parents.

It was late now but there was a light in the window. The dogs filled the night with their clamor as he approached and he stopped at the dilapidated gate to shout:

“Hello--Hello!”

The door opened and a long lane of light cut through the darkness. The Lizard’s voice followed the light:

“Hello yourself--what do you want--who be you?”

“I’m Edwards from up the cañon--call off your dogs, will you?”

From the gate, he could see the fellow in the doorway turn to consult with some one inside. Then the Lizard called to the dogs and shouted:

“Come on in, neighbor. Little late fer you t’ be out, ain’t it?” he added as Edwards approached, then: “Who you got with you?”

“There is no one with me,” returned Edwards as he paused in the light before the door.

“Come in--yer welcome--come right in an’ set by the fire. Yer some wet, I reckon.” As the Lizard spoke, he drew aside from the doorway and as Edwards entered he saw the man place a rifle, which he had held, against the wall.

An old woman sat beside the open fire smoking a cob pipe. The Lizard’s father stood with his back to the wall at the far end of the room. They greeted the visitor with a brief, “Howdy.” The Lizard offered a broken-backed chair.

“Thank you,” said Edwards, “but I can’t stop to sit down. I came to ask if you have seen Miss Hillgrove this afternoon.”

The Lizard and his father looked at each other. The old mother answered:

“What’s the matter, come up missin’, has she?”

Edwards told them in a few words.

The old woman spat in the fire and laughed.

“She’s most likely out in the brush somewheres with some no-account feller like herself. Sarves her right if she gits caught by the creek. Sich triflin’ hussies ought ter git drowned, I say--allus a-tryin’ t’ coax decent folks inter meanness. Best not waste yer time a-huntin’ sich as her, young man.”

Edwards spoke sharply to the Lizard, who was grinning with satisfaction.

“Did you see Miss Hillgrove this afternoon, anywhere on the trail between here and Oracle?”

The father answered in a voice shrill with vicious anger.

“Wal, an’ what ef he did--who be you to be a-comin’ here at this time o’ the night wantin’ t’ know ef my boy has or hain’t seed nobody?”

Hugh Edwards forced himself to speak calmly.

“I am asking a civil question which your son should be glad to answer.” He again faced the Lizard. “Did you see her?”

An insolent, wide-mouthed grin was the Lizard’s only reply.

The old woman by the fire looked over her shoulder.

“Tell him, boy, tell him,” she croaked. “You ain’t got no call to be skeered o’ sich as him.”

“Shucks, maw,” said the son. “I ain’t skeered o’ nothin’. I’m jist a-havin’ a little fun, that’s all.”

He addressed Edwards:

“You bet yer life I seed her ’bout a mile this side o’ Wheeler’s pasture it was. We shore had a nice little visit too. You an’ that thar Saint Jimmy needn’t t’ think you’re th’ only ones.”

Before Edwards could speak, the old woman cried again:

“Tell him, son--why don’t ye tell him what ye said?”

The Lizard grinned.

“I shore told her enough. I’d been a-aimin’ t’ lay her out first chanct I got. When I got through with her, you can bet she knowed more ’bout herself than she’d ever knowed before. She shore knows now what she is an’ what folks is a-thinkin’ ’bout her an’ her carryin’ on with that there lunger an’ you.” His voice rose and his rat eyes glistened with triumph. “She wouldn’t ride with me--Oh, no!--‘prefer t’ ride alone,’ says she. An’ I says, says I--when I’d finished a-tellin’ her what she was an’ how she didn’t have no folks, ner name, ner nothin’--‘You needn’t t’ worry none, there wouldn’t no decent man be seen within a mile of you.’ An’ then I left her settin’ thar like she’d been whipped.”

Hugh Edwards moved a step nearer. It seemed impossible to him that any man could do a thing so vile.

“Are you in earnest?” he asked. “Did you really say such things to Miss Hillgrove?”

“I shore did,” returned the Lizard proudly. “I believe in lettin’ sech people know whar they stand. She’s been a-playin’ th’ high an’ mighty with me long enough.”

Then Edwards struck. With every ounce of his strength behind it, the blow landed fair on the point of the Lizard’s chin. The loose mouth was open at the instant, the slack jaw received the impact with no resistance. The effect was terrific. The fellow’s head snapped back as if his neck were broken--he fell limp and senseless halfway across the room.

The old woman screeched to her man:

“Git him, Jole, git him!”

The Lizard’s father started forward and Edwards saw a knife.

A quick leap and Hugh caught up the rifle that the Lizard had placed against the wall. Covering the man with the knife, the visitor said coolly to the woman:

“Not to-night, madam. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but he isn’t going to get any one just now.”

He backed to the door and opened it with his face toward them and his weapon ready.

“I will leave this gun at the gate,” he said. “If you are as wise as I think you are, you will not leave this room until you are sure that I am gone.”

He pulled the door shut as he backed across the threshold.

As Hugh Edwards made his way back up the cañon he reflected on what the Lizard had said. One thing was certain, Marta had not started home by the highway. But where was she now? At Saint Jimmy’s? Edwards doubted that the girl would go to her friends after such an experience. Nor did he believe that she would come directly home. He knew too well the sensitive pride that was under all the frank boyishness of her nature. No one was better fitted than he to appreciate the possible effects of the Lizard’s cruelty.

Hugh Edwards knew the dreadful power of humiliation and shame. He knew the burning, withering torture of unexpected and unjust public exposure and of undeserved popular condemnation. He knew the horror and despair of innocence subjected to the unspeakable cruelty of those evil-minded gossips whose one hope is that the venomous news they spread may be true, so that they will not be deprived of their vicious pleasure. Better than any one, Hugh Edwards knew why Marta had not come home after meeting the Lizard.

Like a hunted creature, wounded and spent, this man had come, as so many had come before him, to the Cañada del Oro. He had come to the Cañon of Gold to forget and to be forgotten--and he had found Marta. In the frankness and fearlessness of her innocence, the girl had not known how to keep her love from him. And seeing her love, hungering for that love as a starving man hungers for food, as a soul in torment hungers for peace, he had resolutely forbidden himself to speak the words that would make her his.

When he had first come to the cañon, he had hoped only to find gold enough to secure the bare necessities of life. And when out of their daily companionship his love had come with such distracting power, he had been the more miserable. But when he had heard from the Pardners their story of how they found the girl, he had seen that there was no reason save his own ill-starred past why, if he could win freedom from that past, he might not claim her. That freedom--the freedom from the thing that had driven him to hide in the Cañada del Oro--the freedom to tell her his love, could only be had in the gold for which he toiled in the sand and gravel and rocks beside the cañon creek.

As men, through all the years, have sought gold for love, so he had worked in that place of broken hopes and vanished dreams. Every day when she was with him he had sternly forced himself to wait. Every night he had dreamed, in his lonely cabin, of the time when he should be free. Every morning he had gone to his work at sunrise, buoyed with the hope that before dark his pick and shovel would uncover a rich pocket of the yellow metal. Every evening at sunset, as he climbed up the steep path from the place of his labor, he had whispered to himself, “To-morrow.” And now it had all come to this. With the knowledge of what the Lizard had done, and the full realization of all that might so easily result, the man’s control of himself was broken. He was beside himself with anxiety. If Marta was not safe with her friends in the little white house on the mountain side, where was she? Had the Pardners found her? Was she wandering half insane with shame and despair through the storm and darkness? Had she been caught in that plunging flood that was roaring with such wild fury down the cañon? Was her beautiful body, that had been so vivid, so radiant with life, at that moment being crushed and torn by the grinding bowlders and jagged walls of rocks? Perhaps the Pardners, too, had been met by that rushing wall of water before they could escape from the trap into which he had seen them disappear. As these thoughts crowded upon him, the man broke into a run. There must be something--something that he could do. The sense of his utter uselessness was maddening.

At the gate to Marta’s home he stopped, and in the agony of his fears he shouted her name. Again and again he called, until the loneliness of the dark house and the sullen grinding, crashing roar of the creek drove him on. At the first crossing above his own cabin, the stream barred his way. Again he cried with all his might, “Marta! Marta! Thad! Bob!” But the sound of his voice was lost, beaten down, overwhelmed by the wild tumult of the plunging torrent. At last, weary and spent with his efforts, and realizing dully the foolishness of such a useless waste of his strength, he returned to Marta’s home.

He did not stop at his own cabin. Something seemed to lead him on to that house to which he had drifted months before, as a broken and battered ship drifts into a safe harbor from the storm that has left it nearly a wreck. Since the first hour of his coming, that home had been his refuge. Every morning from his own cabin door he had looked for the chimney smoke as a wretched castaway watches for a signal of hope and cheer. Every night in his loneliness he had looked for the lights as one lost in the desert looks at a guiding star. He could not bear the thought now of those dark windows and empty rooms.

* * * * *

As the Pardners were climbing out of the creek bed where the trail leaves the cañon for the higher levels they heard the thundering roar of the coming flood.

“Thank God, we know that won’t git her anyhow,” gasped old Thad. “That there run jest about winded me.”

Bob, panting heavily, managed a sickly grin.

“Like as not we’ll find her safe an’ dry eatin’ supper at Saint Jimmy’s, an’ ready to laugh at us for a pair of old fools gettin’ ourselves so worked up over nothin’.”

“Here’s hopin’,” returned the other. “But it’s bound to be a bad night for the boy back there. Pity there won’t be no way to get word to him ’til mornin’.”

They could not go very fast, and it was pitch dark before they reached the little white house. But at the sight of the lighted windows they hurried as best they could, stumbling over the loose rocks and slipping in the mud up the narrow, zigzag trail.

In less than ten minutes from the time Saint Jimmy opened the door in answer to their knock they were again starting out into the night. And this time they separated. Thad returned to the point where the path that leads by the Burton place branches off from the main trail to make his way from there on, while Bob continued on the path from the white house which joins again the main trail at Wheeler’s pasture gate.

Another hour, and the storm was past. Through the ragged clouds, the stars peered timidly. But every ravine and draw and wash was a channel for a roaring freshet.

A little way from Wheeler’s corral, in the pasture, Thad met his pardner coming back. He was riding and leading another horse saddled.

“She didn’t start home on the highway,” said Bob.

“They seen her at Wheeler’s, did they?”

“Yes, George saw her himself when she was goin’, an’ when she come back. George, he’s saddled up an’ gone on into Oracle to pass the word. He’ll be out with a bunch of riders at sun-up.”

Thad climbed stiffly into the saddle and for some minutes the two old prospectors sat on their horses without speaking, while over their heads the windtorn clouds swept past as if hurrying to some meeting place beyond the distant hills.

“There ain’t a God almighty thing that we can do ’til th’ mornin’,” said Bob at last.

Slowly and in silence they rode back to the little white house on the mountain side, there to wait with Saint Jimmy and Mother Burton for the coming of the day.

The two old prospectors, who had spent the greater part of their lives amid scenes of hardship and danger and whose years had been years of disappointment and failure in their vain search for treasure of gold, had given themselves without reserve to the child that chance had so strangely placed in their keeping. Lacking the home love and the fatherhood that spurs the millions of toiling men to their tasks, and glorifies the burden of their labors, Bob and Thad had spent themselves in their love for their partnership daughter. But, because these men had been schooled in silence by the deserts and the mountains, they made no outward show of their anxiety and fear. They did not cry out in wild protest and vain regrets and idle conjectures. They did not walk the floor or wring their hands. They sat motionless in stolid silence--waiting.

Mother Burton, in the seclusion of her own room, found relief for her overwrought nerves in quiet tears and carried the burden of her anxious, aching mother-heart to the God of motherhood.

Saint Jimmy paced the floor with slow, measured steps, pausing now and then to look from the window into the night or to stand in the open doorway with his face lifted to the wind-swept sky, listening--listening for a voice in the darkness.

In Marta’s home beside the roaring creek--alone amid the dear intimate things of her daily life--the man who had been made to live again in her love waited--waited for the eternity of the night to lift from the Cañon of Gold.