Read Ebook: Spawn of the Desert by Tuttle W C Wilbur C

Font size: 10 px 15 px 20 px 25 px 30 px 35 px

Background color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Text color: BlackWhiteGrayLight GrayDark GrayDim Gray

Apply/Save settings

Ebook has 588 lines and 19760 words, and 12 pages

I 1

II 30

V 57

VI 67

SPAWN OF THE DESERT

The Mohave Indians have a legend of the Calico Mountains and their origin. According to their beliefs, the Great Spirit finished the big task of making the world at this spot.

The desert was the final work of the Great Spirit, and he was much pleased; but in his arms he held a big jumble of rocks, sand and pigments, which were left from the great work. The world was all made and very good to look upon, so he had no place for this extra material.

To get rid of it he simply dropped it at his feet in a mass, and the many-hued pigments spilled over it until the whole was as a bright-hued piece of cloth.

Thus, according to the Indians, was formed these mountains, which are but a jumble of barren rocks, rising sheer from the level desert; scourged through the centuries by the desert sun, wind and sand--an unfading proof that, unlike man, the Great Spirit painted deeper than the surface.

But with all their gaudy colors in the sun, these mountains, at night, are black silhouettes, which appear to be without breadth or thickness; or broken into misty, hazy, unreal piles in the moonlight.

On all sides the desert stretches away to the haze of nothingness--a land of the mirage; scenes which the jealous desert steals from arid lands and holds up to the eyes of desert men to lure them on. Cities, rivers, lakes, with cool, nodding palms, rippling brooks, which seem only a few feet away, then fade out to show a waste of dust-gray mesquite, which rattles in the hot winds, Joshua-trees, with their agonized arms--and sand. Always the sand.

On a rocky plateau of this painted range stood a town--one street of adobe shacks, paved with the solid rock of the mountain. Even the houses were tinted with fantastic colors, where the clay had been mixed with the muck of the silver mines.

At the upper end of the street the cliffs arose sheer for several hundred feet, like gaudy drapes of calico. At the lower end was a succession of broken ledges, which sloped off to the desert, where the winding trails came in from the rest of the world.

To the left of the town was a deep, rocky gorge, so grotesque in formation that it did not appear to be a work of nature. There were natural stone bridges, caves, barriers--unreal in color and design, as though a child-minded giant had modeled them in colored clay and left them to harden in the blistering sun.

This was the residence section of Calico Town, and was known as Sunshine Alley. Just below where the Alley opened onto the desert, on a slight rise of ground, full in the glare of the sun, and with no protection from the ever-sifting sand, was the graveyard, which was known as Hell's Depot. Not a blade of grass, not even a spray of sage grew here. The ground was a mass of small stones, seemingly laid close together like tiles, but showing patterns in colors that would put any man-made mosaic to shame.

One foot deep was the limit of the graves, as the rock below that depth was glass-like flint, but what the graves lacked in depth was made up in height. The mounds of rock were piled until one might believe that the corpse had been of gigantic proportions, or that the sexton wished to preclude any chance of the dead coming back in material form.

Such was Calico in the early 'fifties, when men were gold- and silver-mad. A town of thirty-five hundred population--a population which lived in caves, hollowed places in Sunshine Alley, or picked a corner in the rock and builded a rock barrier around them. This gave a roofless dwelling, but rain did not come to Calico, so there was no need for roofs. Water was worth more than whiskey, and morals were as scarce as orchids.

Just now a funeral was in progress, or rather, had been in progress. The corpse was there in the rough casket; the grave was dug and the pall-bearers stood aside, reverently holding their hats in their hands. Clustered around was a cosmopolitan mining-camp audience. Frock-coated, tall-hatted gamblers rubbed elbows with muck-stained miners. Calico-clad wives of miners, children, dogs, and even a group of burros poked onto the flat to add their faces to the mournful proceedings.

Up the desert trail came two men and a lightly-packed burro; all of them gray with the dust and heat. The one who led the caravan was a mighty, weatherbeaten man, with a long, white beard. In appearance he might have been a saint. Surely he could not be a sinner, with the eyes of a dreamer, the nose of a prophet and the beard of a saint; but nature does queer things to disappoint students of physiognomy.

The other man was also tall. His face showed him to be about thirty years of age--a face seemingly hewed from stone, although handsome in its stern mold. His hair was black and he wore it low between his cheek and ear. There was the free, easy swing to his walk, like the half-lope of a desert wolf.

The patriarch halted the caravan on the trail, just short of the street end, and gazed across at the funeral. The younger man glanced over there, with little show of interest.

"Duke," the old man jerked his head toward the graveyard, "I reckon they're plantin' somebody. Let's me and you go over."

They left their burro on the trail and crossed over, attracting little attention. The crowd seemed to be waiting for someone. Two men were standing near the grave, talking earnestly. Suddenly one of them looked up and saw the newcomers. He walked abruptly away from his companion and halted a few feet from the white-bearded man.

"Podner, by yore whiskers yo're a preacher; are yuh?"

The bearded one's right hand came up and slowly stroked the white mass of hair, which hung nearly to his waist-line.

"Folks, we're playin' in luck. The funeral will proceed jist like nothin' happened extraordinary."

"Just a moment, pardner," said the bearded one, "What happens to be the matter?"

"Not a damn thing," laughed the man. "We needed a preacher awful bad--you showed up. There yuh are!"

"Have you no preacher?"

"We did have. Yessir, we shore had a reg'lar one, and he was plumb tidy and slick on funerals--yessir. But he forgot himself complete-like last night when he 'lowed there wasn't no honest rules of averages, which gives him small cards all the time, while 'Ace' Ault get nothin' smaller than kings-up in ten deals."

"Hm-m-m," the white bearded one almost smiled, "Where is this poker-playin' preacher now?"

"Well, hell's delight!" grunted the other. "He's in the casket! We plumb forgot that he couldn't say his own oration. That's where you comes in handy, like a gun in a boot."

The patriarch's head turned slightly and his eyes flashed to the face of his companion, who was regarding him with stony countenance, although the eyes twitched slightly at the outer corners, a sure sign that Duke Steele was greatly amused.

The bearded one crossed to the grave and looked down at the rough coffin, while the audience moved in closer. A burro brayed raucously and two more of the long-eared beasts added their brazen throats to the racket. A miner heaved a rock against the ribs of the nearest beast, and the animal clattered away for a few jumps, looking back solemnly, sadly.

"Friends," the bearded man's voice was deep and musical, as he lifted his bared head and let his eyes travel around the assemblage, "friends, I have been asked to say a few words over the mortal remains of one of God's anointed; a man who has labored in this land of sin and sinners that the Gospel might be brought home to you all. He was fearless in his righteousness; a guide, friend and spiritual counselor.

"Wait a moment, parson," interrupted the man who had asked the bearded one to deliver the sermon. He stepped forward, hat in hand, clearing his throat apologetically. "I ain't no hand to stop a feller from sayin' what he thinks; but did you know 'Preacher Bill' Bushnell?"

The old man shook his head.

"No, I did not know him, friend."

"I didn't reckon yuh did, parson. We did. I believe in sayin' everythin' good yuh can fer a dead man, but there ain't no use of yuh lyin' to us about Preacher Bill."

The old man glanced down at the coffin, lifted his head slowly and nodded.

"If the Lord is willing, I will take back what I said about him, and start all over again. Wasn't he your minister? Did he not labor among you?"

"He preached," admitted a bearded miner seriously, and added, "when he was sober enough. He owed everybody in Calico, and if he left any good works he sure had 'em cached where nobody'll ever find 'em."

The bearded man nodded slowly and cleared his throat.

"Under those conditions, friends, I suppose I might as well keep away from personalities, and stick to the ordinary burial service. Has anyone a Bible?"

The assemblage looked at each other and back at the bearded one.

"Preacher Bill had one--once," stated a frock-coated gambler. "I dunno what he done with it. If you're a preacher where is your Bible?"

The bearded one glanced quickly at the gambler and held out his hand.

"Let me have a deck of cards, will you?"

"Cards?" queried the gambler, "I have no cards."

"Then you are no better heeled than I am, partner. I have no Bible, you have no cards." He leaned down and placed a hand on the rough casket.

Share on: WhatsApp @Hash Facebook Tweet