desert gold- 第55部分

As　Ladd　had　said；　one　of　their　greatest　problems　was　the　passing　of　time。　　The　nights　were　interminably　long；　but　they　had　to　be　passed　in　work　or　play　or　dreamanything　except　sleep。　　That　was　Ladd's　most　inflexible　command。　　He　gave　no　reason。　　But　not　improbably　the　ranger　thought　that　the　terrific　heat　of　the　day　spend　in　slumber　lessened　a　wear　and　strain；　if　not　a　real　danger　of　madness。

Accordingly；　at　first　the　occupations　of　this　little　group　were　many　and　various。　　They　worked　if　they　had　something　to　do；　or　could　invent　a　pretext。　　They　told　and　retold　stories　until　all　were　wearisome。　　They　sang　songs。　　Mercedes　taught　Spanish。　　They　played　every　game　they　knew。　　They　invented　others　that　were　so　trivial　children　would　scarcely　have　been　interested；　and　these　they　played　seriously。　　In　a　word；　with　intelligence　and　passion；　with　all　that　was　civilized　and　human；　they　fought　the　ever…infringing　loneliness；　the　savage　solitude　of　their　environment。

But　they　had　only　finite　minds。　　It　was　not　in　reason　to　expect　a　complete　victory　against　this　mighty　Nature；　this　bounding　horizon　of　death　and　desolation　and　decay。　　Gradually　they　fell　back　upon　fewer　and　fewer　occupations；　until　the　time　came　when　the　silence　was　hard　to　break。

Gale　believed　himself　the　keenest　of　the　party；　the　one　who　thought　most；　and　he　watched　the　effect　of　the　desert　upon　his　companions。　He　imagined　that　he　saw　Ladd　grow　old　sitting　round　the　campfire。　Certain　it　was　that　the　ranger's　gray　hair　had　turned　white。　　What　had　been　at　times　ahrd　and　cold　and　grim　about　him　had　strangely　vanished　in　sweet　temper　and　a　vacant…mindedness　that　held　him　longer　as　the　days　passed。　　For　hours；　it　seemed；　Ladd　would　bend　over　his　checkerboard　and　never　make　a　move。　　It　mattered　not　now　whether　or　not　he　had　a　partner。　　He　was　always　glad　of　being　spoken　to；　as　if　he　were　called　back　from　vague　region　of　mind。　Jim　Lash；　the　calmest；　coolest；　most　nonchalant；　best…humored　Westerner　Gale　had　ever　met；　had　by　slow　degrees　lost　that　cheerful　character　which　would　have　been　of　such　infinite　good　to　his　companions；　and　always　he　sat　broding；　silently　brooding。　　Jim　had　no　ties；　few　memories；　and　the　desert　was　claiming　him。

Thorne　and　Mercedes；　however；　were　living；　wonderful　proof　that　spirit；　mind；　and　heart　were　freefree　to　soar　in　scorn　of　the　colossal　barrenness　and　silence　and　space　of　that　terrible　hedging　prison　of　lava。　　They　were　young；　they　loved；　they　were　together；　and　the　oasis　was　almost　a　paradise。　Gale　believe　he　helped　himself　by　watching　them。　　Imagination　had　never　pictured　real　happiness　to　him。　　Thorne　and　Mercedes　had　forgotten　the　outside　world。　　If　they　had　been　existing　on　the　burned…out　desolate　moon　they　could　hardly　have　been　in　a　harsher；　grimmer；　lonelier　spot　than　this　red…walled　arroyo。　　But　it　might　have　been　statelier　Eden　than　that　of　the　primitive　day。

Mercedes　grew　thinner；　until　she　was　a　slender　shadow　of　her　former　self。　　She　became　hard；　brown　as　the　rangers；　lithe　and　quick　as　a　panther。　　She　seemed　to　live　on　water　and　the　airperhaps；　indeed；　on　love。　　For　of　the　scant　fare；　the　best　of　which　was　continually　urged　upon　her；　she　partook　but　little。　　She　reminded　Gale　of　a　wild　brown　creature；　free　as　the　wind　on　the　lava　slopes。　　Yet；　despite　the　great　change；　her　beauty　remained　undiminished。　　Her　eyes；　seeming　so　much　larger　now　in　her　small　face；　were　great　black；　starry　gulfs。　　She　was　the　life　of　that　camp。　　Her　smiles；　her　rapid　speech；　her　low　laughter；　her　quick　movements；　her　playful　moods　with　the　rangers；　the　dark　and　passionate　glance；　which　rested　so　often　on　her　lover；　the　whispers　in　the　dusk　as　hand　in　hand　they　paced　the　campfire　beatthese　helped　Gale　to　retain　his　loosening　hold　on　reality；　to　resist　the　lure　of　a　strange　beckoning　life　where　a　man　stood　free　in　the　golden　open；　where　emotion　was　not；　nor　trouble；　nor　sickness；　nor　anything　but　the　savage's　rest　and　sleep　and　action　and　dream。

Although　the　Yaqui　was　as　his　shadow；　Gale　reached　a　point　when　he　seemed　to　wander　alone　at　twilight；　in　the　night；　at　dawn。　　Far　down　the　arroyo；　in　the　deepening　red　twilight；　when　the　heat　rolled　away　on　slow…dying　wind；　Blanco　Sol　raised　his　splendid　head　and　whistled　for　his　master。　　Gale　reproached　himself　for　neglect　of　the　noble　horse。　　Blanco　Sol　was　always　the　same。　　He　loved　four　thingshis　master；　a　long　drink　of　cool　water；　to　graze　at　will；　and　to　run。　　Time　and　place；　Gale　thought；　meant　little　to　Sol　if　he　could　have　those　four　things。　　Gale　put　his　arm　over　the　great　arched　neck　and　laid　his　cheek　against　the　long　white　mane；　and　then　even　as　he　stood　there　forgot　the　horse。　　What　was　the　dull；　red…tinged；　horizon…wide　mantle　creeping　up　the　slope？　Through　it　the　copper　sun　glowed；　paled；　died。　　Was　it　only　twilight？　Was　it　gloom？　　If　he　thought　about　it　he　had　a　feeling　that　it　was　the　herald　of　night　and　the　night　must　be　a　vigil；　and　that　made　him　tremble。

At　night　he　had　formed　a　habit　of　climbing　up　the　lava　slope　as　far　as　the　smooth　trail　extended；　and　there　on　a　promontory　he　paced　to　and　fro；　and　watched　the　stars；　and　sat　stone…still　for　hours　looking　down　at　the　vast　void　with　its　moving；　changing　shadows。　　From　that　promontory　he　gazed　up　at　a　velvet…blue　sky；　deep　and　dark；　bright　with　millions　of　cold；　distant；　blinking　stars；　and　he　grasped　a　little　of　the　meaning　of　infinitude。　　He　gazed　down　into　the　shadows；　which；　black　as　they　were　and　impenetrable；　yet　have　a　conception　of　immeasurable　space。

Then　the　silence！　　He　was　dumb；　he　was　awed；　he　bowed　his　head；　he　trembled；　he　marveled　at　the　desert　silence。　　It　was　the　one　thing　always　present。　　Even　when　the　wind　roared　there　seemed　to　be　silence。　　But　at　night；　in　this　lava　world　of　ashes　and　canker；　he　waited　for　this　terrible　strangeness　of　nature　to　come　to　him　with　the　secret。　　He　seemed　at　once　a　little　child　and　a　strong　man；　and　something　very　old。　　What　tortured　him　was　the　incomprehensibility　that　the　vaster　the　space　the　greater　the　silence！　　At　one　moment　Gale　felt　there　was　only　death　here；　and　that　was　the　secret；　at　another　he　heard　the　slow　beat　of　a　mighty　heart。

He　came　at　length　to　realize　that　the　desert　was　a　teacher。　　He　did　not　realize　all　that　he　had　learned；　but　he　was　a　different　man。　　And　when　he　decided　upon　that；　he　was　not　thinking　of　the　slow；　sure　call　to　the　primal　instincts　of　man；　he　was　thinking　that　the　desert；　as　much　as　he　had　experienced　and　no　more；　would　absolutely　overturn　the　whole　scale　of　a　man's　values；　break　old　habits；　form　new　ones；　remake　him。　More　of　desert　experience；　Gale　believe；　would　be　too　much　for　intellect。　The　desert　did　not　breed　civilized　man；　and　that　made　Gale　ponder　over　a　strange　thought：　after　all；　was　the　civilized　man　inferior　to　the　savage？

Yaqui　was　the　answer　to　that。　　When　Gale　acknowledged　this　he　always　remembered　his　present　strange　manner　of　thought。　　The　past；　the　old　order　of　mind；　seemed　as　remote　as　this　desert　world　was　from　the　haunts　of　civilized　men。　　A　man　must　know　a　savage　as　Gale　knew　Yaqui　before　he　could　speak　authoritatively；　and　then　something　stilled　his　tongue。　　In　the　first　stage　of　Gale's　observation　of　Yaqui　he　had　marked　tenaciousness　of　life；　stoicism；　endurance；　strength。　　These　were　the　attributes　of　the　desert。　　But　what　of　that　second　stage　wherein　the　Indian　had　loomed　up　a　colossal　figure　of　strange　honor；　loyalty；　love？　　Gale　doubted　his　convictions　and　scorned　himself　for　doubting。

There　in　the　gloom　sat　the　silent；　impassive；　inscrutable　Yaqui。　His　dark　face；　his　dark　eyes　were　plain　in　the　light　of　the　stars。　Always　he　was　near　Gale；　unobtrusive；　shadowy；　but　there。　　Why？　Gale　absolutely　could　not　doubt　that　the　Indian　had　heart　as　well　as　mind。　　Yaqui　had　from　the　very　first　stood　between　Gale　and　accident；　toil；　peril。　　It　was　his　own　choosing。　　Gale　could　not　change　him　or　thwart　him。　　He　understood　the　Indian's　idea　of　obligation　and　sacred　duty。　　But　there　was　more；　and　that　baffled　Gale。　　In　the　night　hours；　alone　on　the　slope；　Gale　felt　in　Yaqui；　as　he　felt　the　mighty　throb　of　that　desert　pulse；　a　something　that　drew　him　irresistibly　to　the　Indian。　　Sometimes　he　looked　around　to　find　the　Indian；　to　dispel　these　strange；　pressing　thoughts　of　unreality；　and　it　was　never　in　vain。

Thus　the　nights　passed；　endlessly　long；　with　Gale　fighting　for　his　old　order　of　thought；　fighting　the　fascination　of　the　infinite　sky；　and　the　gloomy　insulating　whirl　of　the　wide　shadows；　fighting　for　belief；　hope；　prayer；　fighting　against　that　terrible　ever…recurring　idea　of　being　lost；　lost；　lost　in　the　desert；　fighting　harder　than　any　other　thing　the　insidious；　penetrating；　tranquil；　unfeeling　self　that　was　coming　between　him　and　his　memory。

He　was　losing　the　battle；　losing　his　hold　on　tangible　things；　losing　his　power　to　stand　up　under　this　ponderous；　merciless　weight　of　desert　space　and　silence。

He　acknowledged　it　in　a　kind　of　despair；　and　the　shadows　of　the　night　seemed　whirling　fiends。　　Lost！　　Lost！　　Lost！　　What　are　you　waiting　for？　　Rain！。　。　。　Lost！　　Lost！　　Lost　in　the　desert！　　So　the　shadows　seemed　to　scream　in　voiceless　mockery。

At　the　moment　he　was　alone　on　the　promontory。　　The　night　was　far　spent。