We Wait The Summons

: Desert Dust

The Sioux had quieted. They let the hollow alone, tenanted as it was with

death; there was for us a satisfaction in that tribute to our defense.

Quite methodically, and with cruel show of leisure they distributed

themselves by knots, in a half-encircling string around our asylum; they

posted a sentry, ahorse, as a lookout; and lolling upon the bare ground in

the sun glare they chatted, laughed, rested, but never for an instant were
br />
we dismissed from their eyes and thoughts.



"They will wait, too. They can afford it," she murmured. "It is cheaper

for them than losing lives."



"If they knew we had only the two cartridges----?"



"They don't, yet."



"And they will find out too late," I hazarded.



"Yes, too late. We shall have time." Her voice did not waver; it heartened

with its vengeful, determined mien.



Occasionally a warrior invoked us by brandishing arm or weapon in surety

of hate and in promise of fancied reprisal. What fools they were! Now and

again a warrior galloped upon the back trail; returned gleefully, perhaps

to flourish an army canteen at us.



"There probably is water where we heard the frogs last night," she

remarked.



"I'm glad we didn't try to reach it, for camp," said I.



"So am I," said she. "We might have run right into them. We are better

here. At least, I am."



"And I," I confirmed.



Strangely enough we seemed to have little to say, now in this precious

doldrums where we were becalmed, between the distant past and the unlogged

future. We had not a particle of shade, not a trace of coolness: the sun

was high, all our rocky recess was a furnace, fairly reverberant with the

heat; the flies (and I vaguely pondered upon how they had existed,

previously, and whence they had gathered) buzzed briskly, attracted by the

dead mule, unseen, and captiously diverted to us also. We lay tolerably

bolstered, without much movement; and as the Sioux were not firing upon

us, we might wax careless of their espionage.



Her eyes, untroubled, scarcely left my face; I feared to let mine leave

hers. Of what she was thinking I might not know, and I did not seek to

know--was oddly yielding and content, for our decisions had been made. And

still it was unreal, impossible: we, in this guise; the Sioux, watching;

the desert, waiting; death hovering--a sudden death, a violent death, the

end of that which had barely begun; an end suspended in sight like the

Dionysian sword, with the single hair already frayed by the greedy shears

of the Fate. A snap, at our own signal; then presto, change!



It simply could not be true. Why, somewhere my father and mother busied,

mindless; somewhere Benton roared, mindless; somewhere the wagon train

toiled on, mindless; the stage road missed us not, nor wondered; the

railroad graders shoveled and scraped and picked as blithely as if the

same desert did not contain them, and us; cities throbbed, people worked

and played, and we were of as little concern to them now as we would be a

year hence.



Then it all pridefully resolved to this, like the warming tune of a fine

battle chant: That I was here, with my woman, my partner woman, the much

desirable woman whom I had won; which was more than Daniel, or Montoyo, or

the Indian chief, or the wide world of other men could boast.



Soon she spoke, at times, musingly.



"I did make up to you, at first," she said. "In Omaha, and on the train."



"Did you?" I smiled. She was so childishly frank.



"But that was only passing. Then in Benton I knew you were different. I

wondered what it was; but you were different from anybody that I had met

before. There's always such a moment in a woman's life."



I soberly nodded. Nothing could be a platitude in such a place and such an

hour.



"I wished to help you. Do you believe that now?"



"I believe you, dear heart," I assured.



"But it was partly because I thought you could help me," she said, like a

confession. And she added: "I had nothing wrong in mind. You were to be a

friend, not a lover. I had no need of lovers; no, no."



We were silent for an interval. Again she spoke.



"Do you care anything about my family? I suppose not. That doesn't matter,

here. But you wouldn't be ashamed of them. I ran away with Montoyo. I

thought he was something else. How could I go home after that? I tried to

be true to him, we had plenty of money, he was kind to me at first, but he

dragged me down and my father and mother don't know even yet. Yes, I tried

to help him, too. I stayed. It's a life that gets into one's blood. I

feared him terribly, in time. He was a breed, and a devil--a gentleman

devil." She referred in the past tense, as to some fact definitely bygone.

"I had to play fair with him, or---- And when I had done that, hoping,

why, what else could I do or where could I go? So many people knew me."

She smiled. "Suddenly I tied to you, sir. I seemed to feel--I took the

chance."



"Thank God you did," I encouraged.



"But I would not have wronged myself, or you, or him," she eagerly

pursued. "I never did wrong him." She flushed. "No man can convict me. You

hurt me when you refused me, dear; it told me that you didn't understand.

Then I was desperate. I had been shamed before you, and by you. You were

going, and not understanding, and I couldn't let you. So I did follow you

to the wagon train. You were my star. I wonder why. I did feel that you'd

get me out--you see, I was so madly selfish, like a drowning person. I

clutched at you; might have put you under while climbing up, myself."



"We have climbed together," said I. "You have made me into a man."



"But I forced myself on you. I played you against Daniel. I foresaw that

you might have to kill him, to rid me of him. You were my weapon. And I

used you. Do you blame me that I used you?"



"Daniel and I were destined to meet, just as you and I were destined to

meet," said I. "I had to prove myself on him. It would have happened

anyway. Had I not stood up to him you would not have loved me."



"That was not the price," she sighed. "Maybe you don't understand yet. I'm

so afraid you don't understand," she pleaded. "At the last I had resigned

you, I would have left you free, I saw how you felt; but, oh, it happened

just the same--we were fated, and you showed that you hated me."



"I never hated you. I was perplexed. That was a part of love," said I.



"You mean it? You are holding nothing back?" she asked, anxious.



"I am holding nothing back," I answered. "As you will know, I think, in

time to come."



Again we reclined, silent, at peace: a strange peace of mind and body, to

which the demonstrations by the waiting Sioux were alien things.



She spoke.



"Are we very guilty, do you think?"



"In what, dearest?"



"In this, here. I am already married, you know."



"That is another life," I reasoned. "It is long ago and under different

law."



"But if we went back into it--if we escaped?"



"Then we should--but don't let's talk of that."



"Then you should forget and I should return to Benton," she said. "I have

decided. I should return to Benton, where Montoyo is, and maybe find

another way. But I should not live with him; never, never! I should ask

him to release me."



"I, with you," I informed. "We should go together, and do what was best."



"You would? You wouldn't be ashamed, or afraid?"



"Ashamed or afraid of what?"



She cried out happily, and shivered.



"I hope we don't have to. He might kill you. Yes, I hope we don't have to.

Do you mind?"



I shook my head, smiling my response. There were tears in her eyes,

repaying me.



Our conversation became more fitful. Time sped, I don't know how, except

that we were in a kind of lethargy, taking no note of time and hanging

fast to this our respite from the tempestuous past.



Once she dreamily murmured, apropos of nothing, yet apropos of much:



"We must be about the same age. I am not old, not really very old."



"I am twenty-five," I answered.



"So I thought," she mused.



Then, later, in manner of having revolved this idea also, more distinctly

apropos and voiced with a certain triumph:



"I'm glad we drank water when we might; aren't you?"



"You were so wise," I praised; and I felt sorry for her cracked lips. It

is astonishing with what swiftness, even upon the dry desert, amid the dry

air, under the dry burning sun, thirst quickens into a consuming fire

scorching from within outward to the skin.



We lapsed into that remarkable patience, playing the game with the Sioux

and steadily viewing each other; and she asked, casually:



"Where will you shoot me, Frank?"



This bared the secret heart of me.



"No! No!" I begged. "Don't speak of that. It will be bad enough at the

best. How can I? I don't know how I can do it!"



"You will, though," she soothed. "I'd rather have it from you. You must be

brave, for yourself and for me; and kind, and quick. I think it should be

through the temple. That's sure. But you won't wait to look, will you?

You'll spare yourself that?"



This made me groan, craven, and wipe my hand across my forehead to brush

away the frenzy. The fingers came free, damp with cold sticky sweat--a

prodigy of a parchment skin which puzzled me.



We had not exchanged a caress, save by voice; had not again touched each

other. Sometimes I glanced at the Sioux, but not for long; I dreaded to

lose sight of her by so much as a moment. The Sioux remained virtually as

from the beginning of their vigil. They sat secure, drank, probably ate,

with time their ally: sat judicial and persistent, as though depending

upon the progress of a slow fuse, or upon the workings of poison, which

indeed was the case.



Thirst and heat tortured unceasingly. The sun had passed the zenith--this

sun of a culminating summer throughout which he had thrived regal and

lustful. It seemed ignoble of him that he now should stoop to torment only

us, and one of us a small woman. There was all his boundless domain for

him.



But stoop he did, burning nearer and nearer. She broke with sudden passion

of hoarse appeal.



"Why do we wait? Why not now?"



"We ought to wait," I stammered, miserable and pitying.



"Yes," she whispered, submissive, "I suppose we ought. One always does.

But I am so tired. I think," she said, "that I will let my hair down. I

shall go with my hair down. I have a right to, at the last."



Whereupon she fell to loosening her hair and braiding it with hurried

fingers.



Then after a time I said:



"We'll not be much longer, dear."



"I hope not," said she, panting, her lips stiff, her eyes bright and

feverish. "They'll rush us at sundown; maybe before."



"I believe," said I, blurring the words, for my tongue was getting

unmanageable, "they're making ready now."



She exclaimed and struggled and sat up, and we both gazed. Out there the

Sioux, in that world of their own, had aroused to energy. I fancied that

they had palled of the inaction. At any rate they were upon their feet,

several were upon their horses, others mounted hastily, squad joined squad

as though by summons, and here came their outpost scout, galloping in, his

blanket streaming from one hand like a banner of an Islam prophet.



They delayed an instant, gesticulating.



"It will be soon," she whispered, touching my arm. "When they are

half-way, don't fail. I trust you. Will you kiss me? That is only the

once."



I kissed her; dry cracked lips met dry cracked lips. She laid herself down

and closed her eyes, and smiled.



"I'm all right," she said. "And tired. I've worked so hard, for only this.

You mustn't look."



"And you must wait for me, somewhere," I entreated. "Just a moment."



"Of course," she sighed.



The Sioux charged, shrieking, hammering, lashing, all of one purpose:

that, us; she, I; my life, her body; and quickly kneeling beside her (I

was cool and firm and collected) I felt her hand guide the revolver

barrel. But I did not look. She had forbidden, and I kept my eyes upon

them, until they were half-way, and in exultation I pulled the trigger, my

hand already tensed to snatch and cock and deliver myself under their very

grasp. That was a sweetness.



The hammer clicked. There had been no jar, no report. The hammer had only

clicked, I tell you, shocking me to the core. A missed cartridge? An empty

chamber? Which? No matter. I should achieve for her, first; then, myself.

I heard her gasp, they were very near, how they shouted, how the bullets

and arrows spatted and hissed, and I had convulsively cocked the gun, she

had clutched it--when looking through them, agonized and blinded as I

was--looking through them as if they were phantasms I sensed another sound

and with sight sharpened I saw.



Then I wrested the revolver from her. I fired pointblank, I fired again

(the Colt's did not fail); they swept by, hooting, jostling; they thudded

on; and rising I screeched and waved, as bizarre, no doubt, as any

animated scarecrow.



It had been a trumpet note, and a cavalry guidon and a rank of bobbing

figures had come galloping, galloping over an imperceptible swell.



She cried to me, from my feet.



"You didn't do it! You didn't do it!"



"We're saved," I blatted. "Hurrah! We're saved! The soldiers are here."



Again the trumpet pealed, lilting silvery. She tottered up, clinging to

me. She stared. She released me, and to my gladly questing gaze her face

was very white, her eyes struggling for comprehension, like those of one

awakened from a dream.



"I must go back to Benton," she faltered. "I shall never get away from

Benton."



We stood mute while the blue-coats raced on with hearty cheers and brave

clank of saber and canteen. We were sitting composedly when the lieutenant

scrambled to us, among our rocks; the troopers followed, curiously

scanning.



His stubbled red face, dust-smeared, queried us keenly; so did his curt

voice.



"Just in time?"



"In time," I croaked. "Water! For her--for me."



There was a canteen apiece. We sucked.



"You are the two from the Mormon wagon train?" he asked.



"Yes, sir. You know?" I uttered.



"We came on as fast as we could. The Sioux are raiding again. By God, you

had a narrow squeak, sir," he reproved. "You were crazy to try it--you and

a woman, alone. We'll take you along as soon as my Pawnees get in from

chasing those beggars."



Distant whoops from a pursuit drifted in to us, out of the desert.



"Captain Adams sent you?" I inquired.



"Yes, sir."



"I will go back," I agreed. "I will go back, but there's no need of Mrs.

Montoyo. If you could see her safely landed at a stage station, and for

Benton----?"



"We'll land you both. I have to report at Bridger. The train is all right.

It has an escort to Bitter Creek."



"I can overtake it, or join it," said I. "But the lady goes to Benton."



"Yes, yes," he snapped. "That's nothing to me, of course. But you'll do

better to wait for the train at Bridger, Mr. ----? I don't believe I have

your name?"



"Beeson," I informed, astonished.



"And the lady's? Your sister? Wife?"



"Mrs. Montoyo," I informed. And I repeated, that there should be no

misunderstanding. "Mrs. Montoyo, from Benton. No relative, sir."



He passed it over, as a gentleman should.



"Well, Mr. Beeson, you have business with the train?"



"I have business with Captain Adams, and he with me," I replied. "As

probably you know. Since he sent you, I shall consider myself under

arrest; but I will return of my own free will as soon as Mrs. Montoyo is

safe."



"Under arrest? For what?" He blankly eyed me.



"For killing that man, sir. Captain Adams' son. But I was forced to it--I

did it in self-defense. I should not have left, and I am ready to face the

matter whenever possible."



"Oh!" said he, with a shrug, tossing the idea aside. "If that's all! I did

hear something about that, from some of my men, but nothing from Adams.

You didn't kill him, I understand; merely laid him out. I saw him, myself,

but I didn't ask questions. So you can rest easy on that score. His old

man seemed to have no grudge against you for it. Fact is, he scarcely

allowed me time to warn him of the Sioux before he told me you and a woman

were out and were liable to lose your scalps, if nothing worse. I think,"

the lieutenant added, narrowing upon me, "that you'll find those Mormons

are as just as any other set, in a show down. The lad, I gathered from the

talk, drew on you after he'd cried quits." He turned hastily. "You spoke,

madam? Anything wanted?"



The trumpeter orderly plucked me by the sleeve. He was a squat,

sun-scorched little man, and his red-rimmed blue eyes squinted at me with

painful interest. He whispered harshly from covert of bronzed hand.



"Beg your pardon, sorr. Mrs. Montoyo, be it--that lady?"



"Yes."



"From Benton City, sorr, ye say?"



"From Benton City."



"Sure, I know the name. It's the same of a gambler the vigilantes strung

up last week; for I was there to see."



I heard a gusty sigh, an exclamation from the lieutenant. My Lady had

fainted again.



"The reaction, sir," I apologized, to the lieutenant, as we worked.



"Naturally," answered he. "You'll both go back to Benton?"



"Certainly," said I.



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