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The Winning of Barbara Worth

H >> Harold B Wright >> The Winning of Barbara Worth




Texas Joe deliberated so long before answering this that Pat glanced
at him uneasily several times. At last the driver drawled: "You're
right there; Jefferson Worth sure has some pull."

Pat grunted. "But fwhat does he do?"

"Do?" Tex swung his team around a spur of the mountain where the
trail leads along the side of a canyon to its head. Far below they
heard the tumbling roar of a stream in its rocky course.

"Sure the man must do something?"

"As near as I can make out Jefferson Worth does everybody."

"Oh ho! So that's ut? I've no care for the cards mesilf, but av a
man's a professional an'--"

"You're off there, pardner. Jefferson Worth ain't that kind. He's
one o' these here financierin' sports, an' so far as anybody that I
ever seen goes, he's got a dead cinch."

"Ye mane he's a banker?"

"Sure. The Pioneer in Rubio City. He started the game in the early
days an' he's been a-rollin' it up ever since. Hit's plumb curious
about this here financierin' business," continued Tex, in his slow,
meditative way. "Looks to me mostly jest plain, common hold-up, only
they do it with money 'stead of a gun. In the old days you used to
get the drop on your man with your six, all regular, an' take what
he happened to have in his clothes. Then the posse'd get after you
an' mebbe string you up, which was all right, bein' part of the
game. Now these fellows like Jefferson Worth, they get's your name
on some writin's an' when you ain't lookin' they slips up an' gets
away with all your worldly possessions, an' the sheriff he jest
laughs an' says hits good business. This here Worth man is jest
about the coolest, smoothest, hardest proposition in the game. He
fair makes my back hair raise. The common run o' people ain't got no
more show stackin' up agin Jefferson Worth than two-bits worth o'
ice has in hell. Accordin' to my notion hit's this here same
financierin' game that's a-ruinin' the West. The cattle range is
about all gone now. If they keeps it up we won't be no better out
here than some o' them places I've heard about back East."

"'Tis a danged ignorant savage ye are, like the rest av yer thribe,
wid yer talk av ruinin' the West. Fwhat wud this counthry be without
money? 'Tis thim same financiers that have brung ye the railroads,
an' the cities, an' the schools, an' the churches, an' all the other
blessin's an' joys of civilization that ye've got to take whither ye
likes ut or not. Look at the Seer, now. Fwhat could a man like him--
an engineer, mind ye--fwhat could the Seer do widout the men wid
money to back him?"

The Irishman's words were answered by a cheerful "Whoa!" and a crash
of the brakes as Texas Joe brought his team to a stand near the
spring at the head of the canyon. "We camp here," he announced.
"This is the last water we strike until we make it over the Pass to
Mountain Springs on the desert side. Jefferson Worth will be along
with the Seer and his kid most any time now."

A little before dusk the banker, with his two companions, arrived.

"Hello, Pat!" The man who leaped from the buckboard and strode
toward the waiting Irishman was tall and broad, with the head and
chin of a soldier, and the brown eyes of a dreamer. He was dressed
in rough corduroys, blue flannel shirt, laced boots, and Stetson,
and he greeted the burly Irishman as a fellow-laborer.

A joyful grin spread over the battered features of the gladiator as
he grasped the Seer's outstretched hand. "Well, dang me but ut's
glad I am to see ye, Sorr, in this divil's own land. I had me
natural doubts, av course, whin I woke up in the wagon, but ut's all
right. 'Tis proud I am to be abducted by ye, Sorr."

"Abducted!" The engineer's laugh awoke the echoes in the canyon. "It
was a rescue, man!"

"Well, well, let ut go at that! But tell me, Sorr"--he lowered his
voice to a confidential rumble--"fwhat's this I hear that ye have
yer bhoy wid ye? Sure I niver knew that ye was a man av family." He
looked toward the slender lad who, with the readiness of a grown
man, was helping the driver of the buckboard to unhitch his team of
four broncos. "'Tis a good lad he is, or I'm a Dutchman."

"You're right, Pat, Abe is a good boy," the Seer answered gravely.
"I picked him up in a mining camp on the edge of the Mojave Desert
when I was running a line of preliminary surveys through that
country for the S. and C. last year. He was born in the camp and his
mother died when he was a baby. God knows how he pulled through! You
know what those mining places are. His father, Frank Lee, was killed
in a drunken row while I was there, and Abe showed so much cool
nerve and downright manliness that I offered him a place with my
party. He has been with me ever since."

Pat's voice was husky as he said: "I ax yer pardon, Sorr, for me
blunderin' impedence about yer bein' a man av family. I'm a danged
old rough-neck, wid no education but me two fists, an' no manners at
all."

The engineer's reply was prevented by the approach of Jefferson
Worth who had been talking with Texas Joe. The banker's head came
but little above the Seer's shoulders and in comparison with the
Irishman's heavy bulk he appeared almost insignificant, while his
plain business suit of gray seemed altogether out of place in the
wild surroundings. His smooth-shaven face was an expressionless gray
mask and his deep-set gray eyes turned from the Irishman to the
engineer without a hint of emotion. The two men felt that somewhere
behind that gray mask they were being carefully estimated--measured
--valued--as possible factors in some far-reaching plan. He spoke to
the Seer, and his voice was without a suggestion of color: "I see
that your friend has recovered." It was as though he stated a fact
that he had just verified.

Laughing at the memory of the Irishman's San Felipe experience, the
engineer said: "Mr. Worth, permit me to introduce Mr. Patrick Mooney
whom I have known for years as the best boss of a grading gang in
the West. Pat, this is Mr. Jefferson Worth, president of the Pioneer
Bank in Rubio City."

The Irishman clutched at his tattered hat-brim in embarrassed
acknowledgment of the Seer's formality. Jefferson Worth, from behind
his gray mask, said in his exact, colorless voice: "He looks as
though he ought to handle men."

As the banker passed on toward the big wagon the Irishman drew close
to the Seer and whispered hoarsely: "Now fwhat the hell kind av a
man is that? 'Tis the truth, Sorr, that whin he looked at me out av
that grave-yard face I could bare kape from crossin' mesilf!"




CHAPTER II.

JEFFERSON WORTH'S OFFERING.


When day broke over the topmost ridges of No Man's Mountains,
Jefferson Worth's outfit was ready to move. The driver of the
lighter rig with its four broncos set out for San Felipe. On the
front seat of the big wagon Texas Joe picked up his reins, sorted
them carefully, and glanced over his shoulder at his employer. "All
set?"

"Go ahead."

"You, Buck! Molly!" The lead mules straightened their traces. "Jack!
Pete!" As the brake was released with a clash and rattle of iron
rods, the wheelers threw their weight into their collars and the
wagon moved ahead.

Grim, tireless, world-old sentinels, No Man's Mountains stood guard
between the fertile land on their seaward side and the desolate
forgotten wastes of the East. They said to the country of green
life, of progress and growth and civilization, that marched to their
line on the West, "Halt!" and it stopped. To the land of lean want,
of gray death, of gaunt hunger, and torturing thirst, that crept to
their feet on the other side, "Stop!" and it came no farther. With
no land to till, no mineral to dig, their very poverty was their
protection. With an air of grim finality, they declared strongly
that as they had always been they would always remain; and, at the
beginning of my story, save for that one, slender, man-made trail,
their hoary boast had remained unchallenged.

Steadily, but with frequent rests on the grades, Jefferson Worth's
outfit climbed toward the summit and a little before noon gained the
Pass. The loud, rattling rumble of the wagon as the tires bumped and
ground over the stony, rock-floored way, with the sharp ring and
clatter of the iron-shod hoofs of the team, echoed, echoed, and
echoed again. Loudly, wildly, the rude sounds assaulted the
stillness until the quiet seemed hopelessly shattered by the din.
Softly, tamely, the sounds drifted away in the clear distance;
through groves of live oak, thickets of greasewood, juniper,
manzanita and sage; into canyon and wash; from bluff and ledge;
along slope and spur and shoulder; over ridge and saddle and peak;
fainting, dying--the impotent sounds of man's passing sank into the
stillness and were lost. When the team halted for a brief rest it
was in a moment as if the silence had never been broken. Grim,
awful, the hills gave no signs of man's presence, gave that creeping
bit of life no heed.

At Mountain Spring--a lonely little pool on the desert side of the
huge wall--they stopped for dinner. When the meal was over, Texas
Joe, with the assistance of Pat, filled the water barrels, while the
boy busied himself with the canteen and the Seer and Jefferson Worth
looked on.

"'Tis a dhry counthry ahead, I'm thinking'," remarked the Irishman
inquiringly as he lifted another dripping bucket.

"Some," returned Tex. "There are three water holes between here and
the river where there's water sometimes. Mostly, though, when you
need it worst, there ain't none there, an' I reckon a dry water hole
is about the most discouragin' proposition there is. They'll all be
dry this trip. There wasn't nothin' but mud at Wolf Wells when we
come through last week."

Again the barren rocks and the grim, forbidding hills echoed the
loud sound of wheel and hoof. Down the steep flank of the mountain,
with screaming, grinding brakes, they thundered and clattered into
the narrow hall-way of Devil's Canyon with its sheer walls and
shadowy gloom. The little stream that trickled down from the tiny
spot of green at the spring tried bravely to follow but soon sank
exhausted into the dry waste. A cool wind, like a draft through a
tunnel, was in their faces. After perhaps two hours of this the way
widened out, the sides of the canyon grew lower with now and then
gaps and breaks. Then the walls gave way to low, rounded hills,
through which the winding trail lay--a bed of sand and gravel--and
here and there appeared clumps of greasewood and cacti of several
varieties.

At length they passed out from between the last of the foot-hills
and suddenly--as though a mighty curtain were lifted--they faced the
desert. At their feet the Mesa lay in a blaze of white sunlight, and
beyond and below the edge of the bench the vast King's Basin
country.

At the edge of the Mesa Texas halted his team and the little party
looked out and away over those awful reaches of desolate solitude.
The Seer and Pat uttered involuntary exclamations. Jefferson Worth,
Texas, and Abe were silent, but the boy's thin features were aglow
with eager enthusiasm, and the face of the driver revealed an
interest in the scene that years of familiarity could not entirely
deaden, but the gray mask of the banker betrayed no emotion.

In that view, of such magnitude that miles meant nothing, there was
not a sign of man save the one slender thread of road that was so
soon lost in the distance. From horizon to horizon, so far that the
eye ached in the effort to comprehend it, there was no cloud to cast
a shadow, and the deep sky poured its resistless flood of light upon
the vast dun plain with savage fury, as if to beat into helplessness
any living creature that might chance to be caught thereon. And the
desert, receiving that flood from the wide, hot sky, mysteriously
wove with it soft scarfs of lilac, misty veils of purple and filmy
curtains of rose and pearl and gold; strangely formed with it wide
lakes of blue rimmed with phantom hills of red and violet--
constantly changing, shifting, scene on scene, as dream pictures
shift and change.

Only the strange, silent life that, through long years, the desert
had taught to endure its hardships was there--the lizard, horned-
toad, lean jack-rabbit, gaunt coyote, and their kind. Only the hard
growth that the ages had evolved dotted the floor of the Basin in
the near distance--the salt-bush and greasewood, with here and there
clumps of mesquite.

And over it all--over the strange hard life, the weird, constantly
shifting scenes, the wondrous, ever-changing colors--was the
dominant, insistent, compelling spirit of the land; a brooding,
dreadful silence; a waiting--waiting--waiting; a mystic call that
was at once a threat and a promise; a still drawing of the line
across which no man might go and live, save those master men who
should win the right.

After a while the engineer, pointing, said: "The line of the
Southwestern and Continental must follow the base of those hills
away over there--is that right, Texas?"

"That'll be about it," the driver answered. "I hear you're goin'
through San Antonio Pass, an' that's to the north. Rubio City lies
about here--" he pointed a little south of east. "Our road runs
through them sand hills that you can see shinin' like gold a-way
over there. Dry River Crossin' is jest beyond. You can see Lone
Mountain off here to the south. Hit'll sure be some warm down there.
Look at them dust-devil's dancin'. An' over there, where you see
that yellow mist like, is a big sand storm. We ain't likely to get a
long one this time o' the year. But you can't tell what this old
desert 'll do; she's sure some uncertain. La Palma de la Mano de
Dios, the Injuns call it, and I always thought that--all things
considerin'--the name fits mighty close. You can see hit's jest a
great big basin."

"The Hollow of God's Hand." repeated the Seer in a low tone. He
lifted his hat with an unconscious gesture of reverence.

The Irishman, as the engineer translated, crossed himself. "Howly
Mither, fwhat a name!"

Jefferson Worth spoke. "Drive on, Texas."

And so, with the yellow dust-devils dancing along their road and
that yellow cloud in the distance, they moved down the slope--down
into The King's Basin--into La Palma de la Mano de Dios, The Hollow
of God's Hand.

"Is that true, sir?" asked Abe of the Seer.

"Is what true, son?"

"What Texas said about the ocean."

"Yes it's true. The lowest point of this Basin is nearly three
hundred feet below sea level. The railroad we are going to build
follows right around the rim on the other side over there. This
slope that we are going down now is the ancient beach." Then, while
they pushed on into the silence and the heat of that dreadful land,
the engineer told the boy and his companions how the ages had
wrought with river and wave and sun and wind to make The King's
Basin Desert.

Wolf Wells they found dry as Texas had anticipated. Phantom Lake
also was dry. Occasionally they crossed dry, ancient water courses
made by the river when the land was being formed; sometimes there
were glassy, hard, bare alkali flats; again the trail led through
jungle-like patches of desert growth or twisted and wound between
high hummocks. Always there was the wide, hot sky, the glaring flood
of light unbroken by shadow masses to relieve the eye and reflected
hotly from the sandy floor of the old sea-bed.

That evening, when they made camp, a heavy mass of clouds hung over
the top of No Man's Mountains and the long Coast Range that walled
in the Basin. Texas Joe, watching these clouds, said nothing; but
when Pat threw on the ground the water left in his cup after
drinking, the plainsman opened upon him with language that startled
them all.

The next day, noon found them in the first of the sand hills. There
was no sign of vegetation here, for the huge mounds and ridges of
white sand, piled like drifts of snow, were never quite still.
Always they move eastward before the prevailing winds from the west.
Through the greater part of the year they advance very slowly, but
when the fierce gales sweep down from the mountains they roll
forward so swiftly that any object in their path is quickly buried
in their smothering depths.

In the middle of the afternoon Texas climbed to the top of a huge
drift to look over the land. The others saw him stand a moment
against the sky, gazing to the northwest, then he turned and slid
down the steep side of the mound to the waiting wagon.

"She's comin'!" he remarked, laconically, "an' she's a big one. I
reckon we may as well get as far as we can."

A few minutes later they saw the sky behind them filling as with a
golden mist. The atmosphere, dry and hot, seemed charged with
mysterious, terrible power. The very mules tossed their heads
uneasily and tugged at the reins as if they felt themselves pursued
by some fearful thing. Straight and hard, with terrific velocity,
the wind was coming down through the mountain passes and sweeping
across the wide miles of desert, gathering the sand as it came.
Swiftly the golden mist extended over their heads, a thick, yellow
fog, through which the sun shone dully with a weird, unnatural
light. Then the stinging, blinding, choking blast was upon them with
pitiless, savage fury. In a moment all signs of the trail were
obliterated. Over the high edges of the drift the sand curled and
streamed like blizzard snow. About the outfit it whirled and eddied,
cutting the faces of the men and forcing them, with closed eyes, to
gasp for breath.

Of their own accord the mules stopped and Texas shouted to Mr.
Worth: "It ain't no use for us to try to go on, sir. There ain't no
trail now, and we'd jest drift around."

As far from the lee of a drift as possible, all hands--under the
desert man's direction--worked to rig a tarpaulin on the windward
side of the wagon. Then, with the mules unhitched and securely tied
to the vehicle, the men crouched under their rude shelter. The
Irishman was choking, coughing, sputtering and cursing, the engineer
laughed good-naturedly at their predicament, and Abe Lee grinned in
sympathy, while Texas Joe accepted the situation grimly with the
forbearance of long experience. But Jefferson Worth's face was the
same expressionless gray mask. He gave no hint of impatience at the
delay; no uneasiness at the situation; no annoyance at the
discomfort. It was as though he had foreseen the situation and had
prepared himself to meet it. "How long do you figure this will last,
Tex?" he asked in his colorless voice.

"Not more than three days," returned the driver. "It may be over in
three hours."

The morning of the second day they crawled from their blankets
beneath the wagon to find the sky clear and the air free from dust.
Eagerly they prepared to move. Against their shelter the sand had
drifted nearly to the top of the wheels, and the wagon-box itself
was more than half filled. The hair, eye-brows, beard and clothing
of the men were thickly coated with powdery dust, while every sign
of the trail was gone and the wheels sank heavily into the soft
sand.

Three times Texas halted the laboring team and, climbing to the
summit of a drift, determined his course by marks unknown to those
who waited below. Again they stopped for the plainsman to take an
observation, and this time the four in the wagon, watching the
figure of the driver against the sky, saw him turn abruptly and come
down to them with long plunging strides. Instinctively they knew
that something unusual had come under his eye.

The Seer and Jefferson Worth spoke together. "What is it, Tex?"

"A stray horse about a mile ahead."

For the first time Texas Joe uncoiled the long lash of his whip and
his call "You, Buck! Molly!" was punctuated by pistol-like cracks
that sounded strangely in the death-like silence of the sandy waste.

As they came within sight of the strange horse the poor beast
staggered wearily to meet the wagon--the broken strap of his halter
swinging loosely from his low-hanging head.

"Look at the poor baste," said Pat. "'Tis near dead he is wid
thirst." He leaped to the ground and started toward the water barrel
in the rear of the wagon.

"Hold on, Pat," said the colorless voice of Jefferson Worth. And his
words were followed by the report of Texas Joe's forty-five.

The Irishman turned to see the strange horse lying dead on the sand.
"Fwhat the hell--" he demanded hotly, but Texas was eyeing him
coolly, and something checked the anger of the Irishman.

"You don't seem to sabe," drawled the man of the desert, replacing
the empty shell in his gun. "There ain't hardly enough water to
carry us through now, an' we may have to pick up this other outfit."

No one spoke as Pat climbed heavily back to his seat.

For two miles the tracks of the strange horse were visible, then
they were blotted out by the sand that had filled them. "He made
that much since the blow," was Texas' slow comment. "How far we are
from where he started is all guess."

As they pushed on, all eyes searched the country eagerly and before
long they found the spot for which they looked. A light spring wagon
with a piece of a halter strap tied to one of the wheels was more
than half-buried by the sand in the lee of a high drift. There was a
small water keg, empty, with its seams already beginning to open in
the fierce heat of the sun, a "grub-box," some bedding and part of a
bale of hay-nothing more.

Jefferson Worth, Pat and the boy attempted to dig in the steep side
of the drift that rose above the half-buried outfit, but at their
every movement tons of the dry sand came sliding down upon them. "It
ain't no use, Mr. Worth," said Texas, as the banker straightened up,
baffled in his effort. "You will never know what's buried in there
until God Almighty uncovers it."

Then the man of the desert and plains read the story of the tragedy
as though he had been an eye witness. "They was travelin' light an'
counted on makin' good time. They must have counted, too, on,
findin' water in the hole." He kicked the empty keg. "Their supply
give out an' then that sand-storm caught 'em and the horses broke
loose. Of course they would go to hunt their stock, not darin' to be
left afoot and without water, an' hits a thousand to one they never
got back to the outfit. We're takin' too many chances ourselves to
lose much time and I don't reckon there's any use, but we'd better
look around maybe."

He directed the little party to scatter and to keep on the high
ground so that they would not lose sight of each other. Until well
on in the afternoon they searched the vicinity, but with no reward,
while the hot sun, the dry burning waste and the glaring sands of
the desert warned them that every hour's delay might mean their own
death. When they returned at last to the wagon, called in by Texas,
no one spoke. As they went on their way each was busy with his own
thoughts of the grim evidence of the desert's power.

Another hour passed. Suddenly Texas halted the mules and, with an
exclamation, leaped to the ground. The others saw that he was
bending over a dim track in the sand.

"My God! men," he shouted, "hit's a woman."

For a short way he followed the foot-prints, then, running back to
the wagon and springing to his seat, swung his long whip and urged
the team ahead.

"Hit's a woman," he repeated. "When the others went away and didn't
come back she started ahead in the storm alone. She had got this far
when the blow quit, leavin' her tracks to show. We may--" He urged
his mules to greater effort.

The prints of the woman's shoe could be plainly seen now. "Look!"
said Tex, pointing, "she's staggerin'--Now she's stopped! Whoa!"
Throwing his weight on the lines he leaned over from his seat.
"Look, men! Look there!" he cried, as he pointed. "She's carryin' a
kid. See, there's where she set it down for a rest." It was all too
clear. Beside the woman's track were the prints of two baby shoes.

The Seer, with a long breath, drew his hand across his sand-begrimed
face. "Hurry, Tex. For God's sake, hurry!"

The Irishman was cursing fiercely in impotent rage, clenching and
unclenching his huge, hairy fists. The boy cowered in his seat. But
not a change came over the mask-like features of Jefferson Worth.
Only the delicate, pointed fingers of his nervous hands caressed
constantly his unshaven chin, fingered his clothing, or--gripped the
edge of the wagon seat as he leaned forward in his place. Texas--
grim, cool, alert, his lean figure instinct now with action and his
dark eyes alight--swung his long whip and handled his reins with a
master's skill, calling upon every atom of his team's strength,
while reading those tracks in the sand as one would scan a printed
page.

It was all written there--that story of mother love; where she
staggered with fatigue; where she was forced to rest; where the baby
walked a little way; and once or twice where the little one stumbled
and fell as the sand proved too heavy for the little feet. And all
the while the desert, dragging with dead weight at the wheels,
seemed to fight against them. It was as though the dreadful land
knew that only time was needed to complete its work. Then the hot
sun dropped beyond the purple wall of mountain and the mystery of
the long twilight began.

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