The Valiant Runaways [54]
them were deep and wide. Of the things that crawl and
scamper and fly there was no sign, not even a hole in the ground; for
even reptiles must have food to eat, and there was nothing here to
sustain man nor beast. The fleckless sky was a deep, hot blue; a blood-
red sun toiled heavily toward the zenith.
"Adan!" shouted Roldan; he was suddenly mad for sound of any sort. A
discouraged "Halloa!" came promptly back.
Roldan dressed himself rapidly. His clothes were quite dry; indeed the
very atmosphere of this strange beautiful place was so dry that it
seemed to crumble in the nostrils. As he finished dressing Adan reached
him. The horses' heads were hanging listlessly. Adan's face had lost its
ruddy colour.
"Roldan," he said, "where are we?"
"I know not," said Roldan, setting his lips.
"I left you to look for water, and there are not even tarantulas in this
accursed place. There is no water, not a drop. Nor a handful of stubble
for the horses."
"We must go back the way we came, and start once more from the foot of
the mountain."
"Can you remember from which point we entered this place? This soil
might be rock; there is not a hoof-print anywhere."
"We should have gone south and we came east. On the northwestern horizon
is something which looks like mountains--a long range--almost buried in
mist. There is no sign of a range anywhere else; so the only thing to do
is to go back to them; they are our mountains; I feel sure of that."
"If the horses do not give out. They are empty and choking, poor things.
Well, there is no reason we should not eat, and, thanks be to that good
mayor domo, we still have a bottle of wine. But I would give something
for a gourd of water. However, we have not been girls yet, and we will
not begin now, my friend."
The boys ate their breakfast, but their spirits felt little lighter,
even after a long draught of wine. The awful quiet of the place, broken
only by an occasional whinny from the mustangs, seemed to press hard
about them, thickening the blood in their veins. Roldan was filled with
forebodings he could not analyse, and strove to coax forth from its
remote brain-cell something that had wandered in, he could not recall
when nor where.
They saddled the mustangs, mounted, and were about to make for the
northwest when Adan gave a hoarse gurgle, caught Roldan's arm, pulled
him about, and pointed with shaking hand to the south.
"Dios de mi alma!" exclaimed Roldan. "It is Los Angeles. We were right,
after all. But why were we never told that it was so beautiful?"
On the southern horizon, half veiled in pale blue mist, showed a stately
city, with domes and turrets and spires and many lofty cathedrals. It
was a white city; there were no red tiles to break those pure and lovely
lines, to blotch that radiant whiteness; even the red sun withheld its
angry shafts.
Roldan gazed, his lips parting, his breath coming quickly. If his
imagination had ever attempted to picture heaven, its wildest flight
would have resembled but fallen short of that living beauty before him.
It was mystifying, exalting. It was worth the dangers and discomforts of
the past month multiplied by twelve, just to have one moment's glimpse
of such perfection. And it was Los Angeles! A city of the Californias,
built by Indian hands! No wonder his family had been careful to leave
its wonders out of the table talk; had he known, he would have been at
its feet long since.
"It isn't the wine?" asked Adan, feebly.
"No. There must have been a fog before; Los Angeles is near the sea."
"Shall we start?"
"Yes, but slowly. The poor mustangs! But it will not be long now. We
cannot be more than two leagues from there. See, it grows plainer every
moment; the fog must have been very heavy."
They cantered on slowly, the mustangs responding automatically to the
light prick of the spur. The beautiful alluring city looked to be
floating in cloud; it smiled and beckoned, inciting even the weary
famished brutes to effort. But at the end of an hour Roldan reined
scamper and fly there was no sign, not even a hole in the ground; for
even reptiles must have food to eat, and there was nothing here to
sustain man nor beast. The fleckless sky was a deep, hot blue; a blood-
red sun toiled heavily toward the zenith.
"Adan!" shouted Roldan; he was suddenly mad for sound of any sort. A
discouraged "Halloa!" came promptly back.
Roldan dressed himself rapidly. His clothes were quite dry; indeed the
very atmosphere of this strange beautiful place was so dry that it
seemed to crumble in the nostrils. As he finished dressing Adan reached
him. The horses' heads were hanging listlessly. Adan's face had lost its
ruddy colour.
"Roldan," he said, "where are we?"
"I know not," said Roldan, setting his lips.
"I left you to look for water, and there are not even tarantulas in this
accursed place. There is no water, not a drop. Nor a handful of stubble
for the horses."
"We must go back the way we came, and start once more from the foot of
the mountain."
"Can you remember from which point we entered this place? This soil
might be rock; there is not a hoof-print anywhere."
"We should have gone south and we came east. On the northwestern horizon
is something which looks like mountains--a long range--almost buried in
mist. There is no sign of a range anywhere else; so the only thing to do
is to go back to them; they are our mountains; I feel sure of that."
"If the horses do not give out. They are empty and choking, poor things.
Well, there is no reason we should not eat, and, thanks be to that good
mayor domo, we still have a bottle of wine. But I would give something
for a gourd of water. However, we have not been girls yet, and we will
not begin now, my friend."
The boys ate their breakfast, but their spirits felt little lighter,
even after a long draught of wine. The awful quiet of the place, broken
only by an occasional whinny from the mustangs, seemed to press hard
about them, thickening the blood in their veins. Roldan was filled with
forebodings he could not analyse, and strove to coax forth from its
remote brain-cell something that had wandered in, he could not recall
when nor where.
They saddled the mustangs, mounted, and were about to make for the
northwest when Adan gave a hoarse gurgle, caught Roldan's arm, pulled
him about, and pointed with shaking hand to the south.
"Dios de mi alma!" exclaimed Roldan. "It is Los Angeles. We were right,
after all. But why were we never told that it was so beautiful?"
On the southern horizon, half veiled in pale blue mist, showed a stately
city, with domes and turrets and spires and many lofty cathedrals. It
was a white city; there were no red tiles to break those pure and lovely
lines, to blotch that radiant whiteness; even the red sun withheld its
angry shafts.
Roldan gazed, his lips parting, his breath coming quickly. If his
imagination had ever attempted to picture heaven, its wildest flight
would have resembled but fallen short of that living beauty before him.
It was mystifying, exalting. It was worth the dangers and discomforts of
the past month multiplied by twelve, just to have one moment's glimpse
of such perfection. And it was Los Angeles! A city of the Californias,
built by Indian hands! No wonder his family had been careful to leave
its wonders out of the table talk; had he known, he would have been at
its feet long since.
"It isn't the wine?" asked Adan, feebly.
"No. There must have been a fog before; Los Angeles is near the sea."
"Shall we start?"
"Yes, but slowly. The poor mustangs! But it will not be long now. We
cannot be more than two leagues from there. See, it grows plainer every
moment; the fog must have been very heavy."
They cantered on slowly, the mustangs responding automatically to the
light prick of the spur. The beautiful alluring city looked to be
floating in cloud; it smiled and beckoned, inciting even the weary
famished brutes to effort. But at the end of an hour Roldan reined