Part 39 (1/2)
”You deserve much sympathy,” she remarked, in that even tone.
I lapsed into a turbulence of voiceless rage at myself, at her, at Daniel's treachery, at all the train, at Benton, and again at this d.a.m.ning predicament wherein I had landed. When I was bound to wrest free after having done my utmost, she appeared to be twitting me because I would not submit to farther use by her. I certainly had the right to extricate myself in the only way left.
So I conned over and over, and my heart gnawed, and the acid of vexation boiled in my throat, and despite the axle grease my arm nagged; while we rode unspeaking, like some guilty pair through purgatory.
My lip had subsided; the pistol wound was superficial. Under different circ.u.mstances the way would have been full of beauty. The high desert stretched vastly, far, far, far before, behind, on either side, the parched gauntness of its daytime aspect a.s.suaged and evanescent. For the moon, now risen, although on the wane, shed a light sufficient, whitening the rocks and the scattered low shrubs, painting the land with sharp black shadows, and enclosing us about with the mystery of great softly illumined s.p.a.ces into which silent forms vanished as if tempting us aside. Of these--rabbits, wolves, animals only to be guessed--there were many, like potential phantoms quickened by the touch of the moonbeams. Mule-back, we twain towered, the sole intruders visible between the two elysians of glorified earth and beatific sky.
The course was southward. After a time it seemed to me that we were descending from the plateau; craunching gradually down a flank until, in a mile or so, we were again upon the level, cutting through another basin formed by the dried bed of an ancient lake whose waters had evaporated into deposits of salt and soda.
At first the mules had plodded with ears p.r.i.c.ked forward, and with sundry snorts and stares as if they were seeing portents in the moons.h.i.+ne.
Eventually their imaginings dulled, so that they now moved careless of where or why, their heads drooped, their minds devoted to achieving what rest they might in the merely mechanical setting of hoof before hoof.
I could not but be aware of my companion. Her hair glinted paly, for she rode bareheaded; her gown, tightened under her as she sat astride, revealed the lines of her boyish limbs. She was a woman, in any guise; and I being a man, protect her I should, as far as necessary. I found myself wis.h.i.+ng that we could upturn something pleasant to talk about; it was ungracious, even wicked, to ride thus side by side through peace and beauty, with lips closed and war in the heart, and final parting as the main desire.
But her firm pose and face steadily to the fore invited with no sign; and after covertly stealing a glance or two at her clear unresponsive profile I still could manage no theme that would loosen my tongue. Thereby let her think me a dolt. Thank Heaven, after another twenty-four hours at most it might not matter what she thought.
The drooning round of my own thoughts revolved over and over, and the scuffing gait of the mules upon way interminable began to numb me.
La.s.situde seemed to be enfolding us both; I observed that she rode laxly, with hand upon the horn and a weary yielding to motion. Words might have stirred us, but no words came. Presently I caught myself dozing in the saddle, aroused only by the twitching of my wounded arm. Then again I dozed, and kept dozing, fairly dead for sleep, until speak she did, her voice drifting as from afar but fetching me awake and blinking.
”Hadn't we better stop?” she repeated.
That was a curious sensation. When I stared about, uncomprehending, my view was shut off by a whiteness veiling the moon above and the earth below except immediately underneath my mule's hoofs. She herself was a specter; the weeds that we brushed were spectral; every sound that we made was m.u.f.fled, and in the intangible, opaquely lucent shroud which had enveloped us like the spirit of a sea there was no life nor movement.
”What's the matter?” I propounded.
”The fog. I don't know where we are.”
”Oh! I hadn't noticed.”
”No,” she said calmly. ”You've been asleep.”
”Haven't you?”
”Not lately. But I don't think there's any use in riding on. We've lost our bearings.”
She was ahead; evidently had taken the lead while I slept. That realization straightened me, shamed, in my saddle. The fog, fleecy, not so wet as impenetrable--when had it engulfed us?
”How long have we been in it?” I asked, thoroughly vexed.
”An hour, maybe. We rode right into it. I thought we might leave it, but we don't. It's as thick as ever. We ought to stop.”
”I suppose we ought,” said I.
And at the moment we entered into a sudden clearing amidst the fog enclosure: a tract of a quarter of an acre, like a hollow center, with the white walls held apart and the stars and moon faintly glimmering down through the mist roof overhead.
She drew rein and half turned in the saddle. I could see her face. It was dank and wan and heavy-eyed; her hair, somewhat robbed of its sheen, crowned with a pallid golden aureole.
”Will this do? If we go on we'll only be riding into the fog again.”