CHAPTER XXIA MORNING RIDE
INNES was loping toward the Wistaria, the wind in her face till she turned west by the canal. It occurred to her then, that she did not know how she was going to cross the river; it cut the canal; that was the cut which was threatening that district. She had not thought to ask Parrish whether they boated it across, or if there was a cable across the stream. She would not turn back, she would meet some one.
She was a part of a fleeing universe; the wind, the dust-clouds, the victorious racing river, her good horse loping free—herself on the edge of the mad wild world! Because she was young, and life was dramatic to her, the wind took possession of her spirit, which spread its wings toward the broad sweep of moving plains, to the sharp jagged line of dust-obscured mountain. The conflict of Titans called to her; it was a great music drama; the wind had its own wild rôle; the river, the fervid lover, and the desert a lean, brown Indian maid resisting his ardor. The Valkyrie’s call burst from her. She was riding to it; she threw the five splendid notes against the shriek of the elemental battle.
Desperate pygmies, all of them; ants, protecting their little ant-hill against Titans—Ogilvie in his tent, Eggersa prisoner to fear—the women planting their little trees, the men defending their toy levee against the Dragon and the strength of its ravished mate; absurd, impotent the weak human effort! Had she caught Estrada’s feeling? She had taxed him often with skepticism. True, he has not answered her, except with those truthful, melancholy eyes of his!
Queer, that reserve—with her, when she knew what she knew! What had given her the conviction that he did not want to tell her that he cared? Why did he guard his lips, when his eyes, his mind cried out to her, not only when she was with him, but in the night, when all the world slept, and he miles from her, his need wakening her, chaining, was it imagination, or was this—Love? His affection deeper than all the others, and he the only one she did not have to remind,—continually remind!—of their soldiery.
Good soldiers!
Had she been too quick to take offense that morning? Could she expect that he—Mr. Rickard—could not see the failings she herself feared? Tom was splendid, heroic, yes, but a good soldier? The other had taken a soldier’s drilling—Eduardo had told her of Wyoming, and the Mexican barrancas—Tom was unjust in that—unjust to Marshall. Rickard was not a bookman. Even if she did not like him—!
She saw Busby, who was driving away from the Wistaria.
She hailed him. “Tell me,” she called. “How do you get over?”
“They’ve strung a cable. Looking for Mrs. Parrish?”
His wagon was heaped high with household loot, tins and frying-pans, brooms and a battered graphophone.Something had happened! The wind drowned her words, but her hands challenged his cargo.
“Her tent blew down! She’s over at my house.” He drove abreast of her.
“Hertent!”
That it should be her tent to go! She thought to ask if Mrs. Parrish had been hurt, but Busby did not hear the question.
“I’ve just been over to see what I could save. The Indians would be carrying these away. A woman sets a store by her pots and pans and dishes. The dishes, well, they’re gone, of course; splinters!”
“Then there is no use going there—I’ll go over to your place.”
“Go back by Jones’ ranch,” shouted Busby over his shoulder. “It’s quicker than the road ahorseback.”
Her pagan joy was quenched. Her pace was now a sober one. He had not said if Mrs. Parrish was hurt.
The tidy farm of the Busbys looked wind-blown and dispirited. The young orange trees had torn from their stakes; they curved away from the castigating wind. The alfalfa fields had withstood the blight, and the young willows which fringed the ditch, doubling to the breeze, sprang back like elastic when it passed.
Mrs. Busby came out on the porch to meet her. Innes was tying her horse. “How is she?” she demanded.
“Asleep, I think. Tie him fast. This wind makes the beasts restless. Come right in.”
Not even a desert storm would be allowed to meddle with that interior. The room Innes entered was freshly dusted. It was glaringly ugly; neat and comfortable. Tiers of labeled boxes rose from a pine shelf; a motley collection of calico bags hung from hooks beneath.
“How did you get her here? How did you know?” demanded Innes.
“She told us herself. She must havecrawled here.”
“Crawled! Shewashurt, then!”
“Who told you? Where’d you hear it?”
“I met Mr. Busby.Wasshe hurt?”
“Did he find anything? Was he goin’ there or was he comin’ away? I guess there wasn’t much left with that roof fallin’ in.”
There was a sound from the room beyond. Mrs. Busby disappeared. A minute later, she beckoned from the darkened chamber. Innes crept in fearfully.
It was a terrible face that looked up from the pillow. A red gash had mutilated the cheek; the nose was scraped. Worse to Innes was the motion of the features—the eyelids, the lips, the chin were twitching the face into a horror. From the staring eyeballs, a crazed appeal shot up.
“She’s anxious as you shan’t tell her husband. He’s got his work to do. She sent word by Busby as she’s all right.”
“I shan’t tell him,” said Innes pitifully.
A hand that looked like a claw picked at the coarse white spread. The jerking mouth was trying to tell her something. Mrs. Busby leaned over the bed.
“She’s worrying about Mrs. Dowker. Now, if that doesn’t beat all! I’m tellin’ her you’ll go and see if they’re all right. The boy is sick.” An open wink disavowed the obligation.
“Of course, I’ll go,” cried Innes, not heeding the signal. “Is—is her arm broken?”
Mrs. Busby was silent. The woman on the bed had to answer that question.
“It—fell on me. I—always—knew it would. I got under the bed. A beam struck my arm.”
Innes pointed to the skilful bandage.
“Who set it?”
“I did.” Mrs. Busby showed embarrassment. Frontier skill and her new faith were not yet in harmony. “It wasn’t no time to argue.”
The morning was gone when Innes turned from the Dowker tent. She was despondently comparing life to a vise, “that is, woman’s life!” How much easier to be a man, to fight the big fight, than the eternal wrestle with dirt and disorder! No, a woman’s life is a river, she changed her comparison whimsically, a shallow stream ending in a—sink! Small wonder that the sad asylums were full of women, women from the farms. Tom’s work would help that, the Hardins, the Estradas; she had heard Captain Brandon tell of the deliverance promised by the gospel of irrigation! The women on the farms of to-morrow would not have isolation or pioneer toil for their portion. But these were the real pioneers, these women! Theirs was the sacrifice.
Gerty called to her from the neighboring tent as she was entering her own.
“Do you mind cleaning up for me to-day? Tom may come home. I left the dishes last night, and I’ve got one of my terrible headaches.”
Soon she had the hot water waiting for the tray of scraped dishes. She had planned to go back to the river. “A shallow stream ending in a sink!” she chirped to a rueful reflection from one of Gerty’s new tins. “Oh, smile, Innes Hardin! You look just like a Gingg!”