thea’s twelfth birthday had passed a few weeks before her memorable call upon mrs. tellamantez. there was a worthy man in moonstone who was already planning to marry thea as soon as she should be old enough. his name was ray kennedy, his age was thirty, and he was conductor on a freight train, his run being from moonstone to denver. ray was a big fellow, with a square, open american face, a rock chin, and features that one would never happen to remember. he was an aggressive idealist, a freethinker, and, like most railroad men, deeply sentimental. thea liked him for reasons that had to do with the adventurous life he had led in mexico and the southwest, rather than for anything very personal. she liked him, too, because he was the only one of her friends who ever took her to the sand hills. the sand hills were a constant tantalization; she loved them better than anything near moonstone, and yet she could so seldom get to them. the first dunes were accessible enough; they were only a few miles beyond the kohlers’, and she could run out there any day when she could do her practicing in the morning and get thor off her hands for an afternoon. but the real hills—the turquoise hills, the mexicans called them—were ten good miles away, and one reached them by a heavy, sandy road. dr. archie sometimes took thea on his long drives, but as nobody lived in the sand hills, he never had calls to make in that direction. ray kennedy was her only hope of getting there.
this summer thea had not been to the hills once, though ray had planned several sunday expeditions. once thor was sick, and once the organist in her father’s church was away and thea had to play the organ for the three sunday services. but on the first sunday in september, ray drove up to the kronborgs’ front gate at nine o’clock in the morning and the party actually set off. gunner and axel went with thea, and ray had asked spanish johnny to come and to bring mrs. tellamantez and his mandolin. ray was artlessly fond of music, especially of mexican music. he and mrs. tellamantez had got up the lunch between them, and they were to make coffee in the desert.
when they left mexican town, thea was on the front seat with ray and johnny, and gunner and axel sat behind with mrs. tellamantez. they objected to this, of course, but there were some things about which thea would have her own way. “as stubborn as a finn,” mrs. kronborg sometimes said of her, quoting an old swedish saying. when they passed the kohlers’, old fritz and wunsch were cutting grapes at the arbor. thea gave them a businesslike nod. wunsch came to the gate and looked after them. he divined ray kennedy’s hopes, and he distrusted every expedition that led away from the piano. unconsciously he made thea pay for frivolousness of this sort.
as ray kennedy’s party followed the faint road across the sagebrush, they heard behind them the sound of church bells, which gave them a sense of escape and boundless freedom. every rabbit that shot across the path, every sage hen that flew up by the trail, was like a runaway thought, a message that one sent into the desert. as they went farther, the illusion of the mirage became more instead of less convincing; a shallow silver lake that spread for many miles, a little misty in the sunlight. here and there one saw reflected the image of a heifer, turned loose to live upon the sparse sand-grass. they were magnified to a preposterous height and looked like mammoths, prehistoric beasts standing solitary in the waters that for many thousands of years actually washed over that desert;—the mirage itself may be the ghost of that long-vanished sea. beyond the phantom lake lay the line of many-colored hills; rich, sun-baked yellow, glowing turquoise, lavender, purple; all the open, pastel colors of the desert.
after the first five miles the road grew heavier. the horses had to slow down to a walk and the wheels sank deep into the sand, which now lay in long ridges, like waves, where the last high wind had drifted it. two hours brought the party to pedro’s cup, named for a mexican desperado who had once held the sheriff at bay there. the cup was a great amphitheater, cut out in the hills, its floor smooth and packed hard, dotted with sagebrush and greasewood.
on either side of the cup the yellow hills ran north and south, with winding ravines between them, full of soft sand which drained down from the crumbling banks. on the surface of this fluid sand, one could find bits of brilliant stone, crystals and agates and onyx, and petrified wood as red as blood. dried toads and lizards were to be found there, too. birds, decomposing more rapidly, left only feathered skeletons.
after a little reconnoitering, mrs. tellamantez declared that it was time for lunch, and ray took his hatchet and began to cut greasewood, which burns fiercely in its green state. the little boys dragged the bushes to the spot that mrs. tellamantez had chosen for her fire. mexican women like to cook out of doors.
after lunch thea sent gunner and axel to hunt for agates. “if you see a rattlesnake, run. don’t try to kill it,” she enjoined.
gunner hesitated. “if ray would let me take the hatchet, i could kill one all right.”
mrs. tellamantez smiled and said something to johnny in spanish.
“yes,” her husband replied, translating, “they say in mexico, kill a snake but never hurt his feelings. down in the hot country, muchacha,” turning to thea, “people keep a pet snake in the house to kill rats and mice. they call him the house snake. they keep a little mat for him by the fire, and at night he curl up there and sit with the family, just as friendly!”
gunner sniffed with disgust. “well, i think that’s a dirty mexican way to keep house; so there!”
johnny shrugged his shoulders. “perhaps,” he muttered. a mexican learns to dive below insults or soar above them, after he crosses the border.
by this time the south wall of the amphitheater cast a narrow shelf of shadow, and the party withdrew to this refuge. ray and johnny began to talk about the grand canyon and death valley, two places much shrouded in mystery in those days, and thea listened intently. mrs. tellamantez took out her drawn-work and pinned it to her knee. ray could talk well about the large part of the continent over which he had been knocked about, and johnny was appreciative.
“you been all over, pretty near. like a spanish boy,” he commented respectfully.
ray, who had taken off his coat, whetted his pocketknife thoughtfully on the sole of his shoe. “i began to browse around early. i had a mind to see something of this world, and i ran away from home before i was twelve. rustled for myself ever since.”
“ran away?” johnny looked hopeful. “what for?”
“couldn’t make it go with my old man, and didn’t take to farming. there were plenty of boys at home. i wasn’t missed.”
thea wriggled down in the hot sand and rested her chin on her arm. “tell johnny about the melons, ray, please do!”
ray’s solid, sunburned cheeks grew a shade redder, and he looked reproachfully at thea. “you’re stuck on that story, kid. you like to get the laugh on me, don’t you? that was the finishing split i had with my old man, john. he had a claim along the creek, not far from denver, and raised a little garden stuff for market. one day he had a load of melons and he decided to take ’em to town and sell ’em along the street, and he made me go along and drive for him. denver wasn’t the queen city it is now, by any means, but it seemed a terrible big place to me; and when we got there, if he didn’t make me drive right up capitol hill! pap got out and stopped at folkses houses to ask if they didn’t want to buy any melons, and i was to drive along slow. the farther i went the madder i got, but i was trying to look unconscious, when the end-gate came loose and one of the melons fell out and squashed. just then a swell girl, all dressed up, comes out of one of the big houses and calls out, ‘hello, boy, you’re losing your melons!’ some dudes on the other side of the street took their hats off to her and began to laugh. i couldn’t stand it any longer. i grabbed the whip and lit into that team, and they tore up the hill like jack-rabbits, them damned melons bouncing out the back every jump, the old man cussin’ an’ yellin’ behind and everybody laughin’. i never looked behind, but the whole of capitol hill must have been a mess with them squashed melons. i didn’t stop the team till i got out of sight of town. then i pulled up an’ left ’em with a rancher i was acquainted with, and i never went home to get the lickin’ that was waitin’ for me. i expect it’s waitin’ for me yet.”
thea rolled over in the sand. “oh, i wish i could have seen those melons fly, ray! i’ll never see anything as funny as that. now, tell johnny about your first job.”
ray had a collection of good stories. he was observant, truthful, and kindly—perhaps the chief requisites in a good story-teller. occasionally he used newspaper phrases, conscientiously learned in his efforts at self-instruction, but when he talked naturally he was always worth listening to. never having had any schooling to speak of, he had, almost from the time he first ran away, tried to make good his loss. as a sheep-herder he had worried an old grammar to tatters, and read instructive books with the help of a pocket dictionary. by the light of many camp-fires he had pondered upon prescott’s histories, and the works of washington irving, which he bought at a high price from a book-agent. mathematics and physics were easy for him, but general culture came hard, and he was determined to get it. ray was a freethinker, and inconsistently believed himself damned for being one. when he was braking, down on the santa fé, at the end of his run he used to climb into the upper bunk of the caboose, while a noisy gang played poker about the stove below him, and by the roof-lamp read robert ingersoll’s speeches and “the age of reason.”
ray was a loyal-hearted fellow, and it had cost him a great deal to give up his god. he was one of the stepchildren of fortune, and he had very little to show for all his hard work; the other fellow always got the best of it. he had come in too late, or too early, on several schemes that had made money. he brought with him from all his wanderings a good deal of information (more or less correct in itself, but unrelated, and therefore misleading), a high standard of personal honor, a sentimental veneration for all women, bad as well as good, and a bitter hatred of englishmen. thea often thought that the nicest thing about ray was his love for mexico and the mexicans, who had been kind to him when he drifted, a homeless boy, over the border. in mexico, ray was señor ken-áy-dy, and when he answered to that name he was somehow a different fellow. he spoke spanish fluently, and the sunny warmth of that tongue kept him from being quite as hard as his chin, or as narrow as his popular science.
while ray was smoking his cigar, he and johnny fell to talking about the great fortunes that had been made in the southwest, and about fellows they knew who had “struck it rich.”
“i guess you been in on some big deals down there?” johnny asked trustfully.
ray smiled and shook his head. “i’ve been out on some, john. i’ve never been exactly in on any. so far, i’ve either held on too long or let go too soon. but mine’s coming to me, all right.” ray looked reflective. he leaned back in the shadow and dug out a rest for his elbow in the sand. “the narrowest escape i ever had, was in the bridal chamber. if i hadn’t let go there, it would have made me rich. that was a close call.”
johnny looked delighted. “you don’ say! she was silver mine, i guess?”
“i guess she was! down at lake valley. i put up a few hundred for the prospector, and he gave me a bunch of stock. before we’d got anything out of it, my brother-in-law died of the fever in cuba. my sister was beside herself to get his body back to colorado to bury him. seemed foolish to me, but she’s the only sister i got. it’s expensive for dead folks to travel, and i had to sell my stock in the mine to raise the money to get elmer on the move. two months afterward, the boys struck that big pocket in the rock, full of virgin silver. they named her the bridal chamber. it wasn’t ore, you remember. it was pure, soft metal you could have melted right down into dollars. the boys cut it out with chisels. if old elmer hadn’t played that trick on me, i’d have been in for about fifty thousand. that was a close call, spanish.”
“i recollec’. when the pocket gone, the town go bust.”
“you bet. higher’n a kite. there was no vein, just a pocket in the rock that had sometime or another got filled up with molten silver. you’d think there would be more somewhere about, but nada. there’s fools digging holes in that mountain yet.”
when ray had finished his cigar, johnny took his mandolin and began kennedy’s favorite, “ultimo amor.” it was now three o’clock in the afternoon, the hottest hour in the day. the narrow shelf of shadow had widened until the floor of the amphitheater was marked off in two halves, one glittering yellow, and one purple. the little boys had come back and were making a robbers’ cave to enact the bold deeds of pedro the bandit. johnny, stretched gracefully on the sand, passed from “ultimo amor” to “fluvia de oro,” and then to “noches de algeria,” playing languidly.
every one was busy with his own thoughts. mrs. tellamantez was thinking of the square in the little town in which she was born; of the white church steps, with people genuflecting as they passed, and the round-topped acacia trees, and the band playing in the plaza. ray kennedy was thinking of the future, dreaming the large western dream of easy money, of a fortune kicked up somewhere in the hills,—an oil well, a gold mine, a ledge of copper. he always told himself, when he accepted a cigar from a newly married railroad man, that he knew enough not to marry until he had found his ideal, and could keep her like a queen. he believed that in the yellow head over there in the sand he had found his ideal, and that by the time she was old enough to marry, he would be able to keep her like a queen. he would kick it up from somewhere, when he got loose from the railroad.
thea, stirred by tales of adventure, of the grand canyon and death valley, was recalling a great adventure of her own. early in the summer her father had been invited to conduct a reunion of old frontiersmen, up in wyoming, near laramie, and he took thea along with him to play the organ and sing patriotic songs. there they stayed at the house of an old ranchman who told them about a ridge up in the hills called laramie plain, where the wagon-trails of the forty-niners and the mormons were still visible. the old man even volunteered to take mr. kronborg up into the hills to see this place, though it was a very long drive to make in one day. thea had begged frantically to go along, and the old rancher, flattered by her rapt attention to his stories, had interceded for her.
they set out from laramie before daylight, behind a strong team of mules. all the way there was much talk of the forty-niners. the old rancher had been a teamster in a freight train that used to crawl back and forth across the plains between omaha and cherry creek, as denver was then called, and he had met many a wagon train bound for california. he told of indians and buffalo, thirst and slaughter, wanderings in snowstorms, and lonely graves in the desert.
the road they followed was a wild and beautiful one. it led up and up, by granite rocks and stunted pines, around deep ravines and echoing gorges. the top of the ridge, when they reached it, was a great flat plain, strewn with white boulders, with the wind howling over it. there was not one trail, as thea had expected; there were a score; deep furrows, cut in the earth by heavy wagon wheels, and now grown over with dry, whitish grass. the furrows ran side by side; when one trail had been worn too deep, the next party had abandoned it and made a new trail to the right or left. they were, indeed, only old wagon ruts, running east and west, and grown over with grass. but as thea ran about among the white stones, her skirts blowing this way and that, the wind brought to her eyes tears that might have come anyway. the old rancher picked up an iron ox-shoe from one of the furrows and gave it to her for a keepsake. to the west one could see range after range of blue mountains, and at last the snowy range, with its white, windy peaks, the clouds caught here and there on their spurs. again and again thea had to hide her face from the cold for a moment. the wind never slept on this plain, the old man said. every little while eagles flew over.
coming up from laramie, the old man had told them that he was in brownsville, nebraska, when the first telegraph wires were put across the missouri river, and that the first message that ever crossed the river was “westward the course of empire takes its way.” he had been in the room when the instrument began to click, and all the men there had, without thinking what they were doing, taken off their hats, waiting bareheaded to hear the message translated. thea remembered that message when she sighted down the wagon tracks toward the blue mountains. she told herself she would never, never forget it. the spirit of human courage seemed to live up there with the eagles. for long after, when she was moved by a fourth-of-july oration, or a band, or a circus parade, she was apt to remember that windy ridge.
to-day she went to sleep while she was thinking about it. when ray wakened her, the horses were hitched to the wagon and gunner and axel were begging for a place on the front seat. the air had cooled, the sun was setting, and the desert was on fire. thea contentedly took the back seat with mrs. tellamantez. as they drove homeward the stars began to come out, pale yellow in a yellow sky, and ray and johnny began to sing one of those railroad ditties that are usually born on the southern pacific and run the length of the santa fé and the “q” system before they die to give place to a new one. this was a song about a greaser dance, the refrain being something like this:—
“pedró, pedró, swing high, swing low,
and it’s allamand left again;
for there’s boys that’s bold and there’s some that’s cold,
but the góld boys come from spain,
oh, the góld boys come from spain!”
