The Valiant Runaways [55]
in
with a puzzled expression. "I do not understand," he said. "It seemed
not two leagues away when we started, and we have come that far and
more, and still it seems exactly the same distance beyond."
"The atmosphere is so clear," suggested Adan. "But I wish we were there.
My mouth is parched, my tongue is dry--and the horses, Roldan. Soon they
will be as limp as sails in a calm."
"True, but we could easily walk the distance now. We could return for
them at once with water and food." But he was beginning to feel vaguely
uneasy once more. The odd sensation of death, of a buried world, had
returned. Could it be that that fair city beyond was heaven? Surely, he
thought with unconscious humour, it was very un-Californian.
They passed the lonely buttes, the parched beds of lakes, salt-coated.
Still they saw not a living thing; still the city seemed to recede with
the horizon, its sharp beautiful outlines unchanged. For some time the
horses had been trotting unevenly. Gradually they relaxed into a dogged
amble, their heads down, their tongues out. Every now and again they
half paused, with quivering knees.
Adan's was the first to collapse; it fell to its knees, then rolled
over, Adan scrambling from under, unhurt.
Roldan also dismounted, and both boys, without a word, unsaddled the
poor brutes, thrust the pistols into their belts and what was left of
the provisions into their pockets. They cast off their ponchos, then
once more turned their faces to the south. But they did not advance.
They stood with distended eyes and suspended breath. The city had
disappeared.
Adan was the first to find speech. "A fog?" he asked. "A rain storm?"
"There is neither. The horizon is as blue and clear as it is on the
north and east and west. It is a miracle. Let me think a moment."
He sat down and took his head between his hands. After a while he looked
up. "For hours I have been trying to remember something," he said. "Do
you remember what that mayor domo said to us?--Keep straight on,
straight on, never turning to the left, for that way lies the terrible
Mojave desert, I barely heard his last words at the time; that is the
reason I have had such a time remembering. We are in the Mojave desert,
my friend."
Adan, whose mouth was still wide open, sat down and rolled his eyes from
east to west. "Caramba!" he ejaculated finally.
"I could say a good deal more than Caramba. All that I have heard of
this Mojave comes back to me. There is no water on it, no living thing
but half choked cacti and stunted palms. Men who are lost on it go mad
and die of thirst--"
"Ay, yi, yi!"
"Si, senor. However, it might be much worse. It is winter, not summer,--
when the heat kills in a day; we have food and a little wine; we are
young and very strong; we have not come so many leagues that we cannot
walk back. And we have each other. Think, were we alone!"
"Yes, it might be worse," said Adan, "but all the same it might be six
or eight leagues to the northwest better. And that city? What was it?
Where has it gone?"
"I do not know." Privately he believed that it had been a glimpse of
heaven, and was disturbed lest it might have been a portent of death.
But his mind was too active, his nature too independent to sit down
under superstition. If he died on the desert, it would not be through
lack of effort to get out of it.
He stood up, setting his lips. "Come," he said. "We gain nothing by
sitting here, and we are both fresh; we can walk many leagues before
night."
"Do you know which way to go?" asked Adan.
Roldan swept the horizon with his eyes. The buttes they had passed had
displaced the solitary landmark of the morning. There was not a hoof-
beat on the hard split ground. Roldan shrugged his shoulders.
"We can at least follow the sun. Los Angeles must be due west. Come."
The sun was past the zenith and sloping to the west. The boys turned
their backs upon it and trudged on, only pausing once for a half-hour to
divide the meagre remains of their store. Evening came; the
with a puzzled expression. "I do not understand," he said. "It seemed
not two leagues away when we started, and we have come that far and
more, and still it seems exactly the same distance beyond."
"The atmosphere is so clear," suggested Adan. "But I wish we were there.
My mouth is parched, my tongue is dry--and the horses, Roldan. Soon they
will be as limp as sails in a calm."
"True, but we could easily walk the distance now. We could return for
them at once with water and food." But he was beginning to feel vaguely
uneasy once more. The odd sensation of death, of a buried world, had
returned. Could it be that that fair city beyond was heaven? Surely, he
thought with unconscious humour, it was very un-Californian.
They passed the lonely buttes, the parched beds of lakes, salt-coated.
Still they saw not a living thing; still the city seemed to recede with
the horizon, its sharp beautiful outlines unchanged. For some time the
horses had been trotting unevenly. Gradually they relaxed into a dogged
amble, their heads down, their tongues out. Every now and again they
half paused, with quivering knees.
Adan's was the first to collapse; it fell to its knees, then rolled
over, Adan scrambling from under, unhurt.
Roldan also dismounted, and both boys, without a word, unsaddled the
poor brutes, thrust the pistols into their belts and what was left of
the provisions into their pockets. They cast off their ponchos, then
once more turned their faces to the south. But they did not advance.
They stood with distended eyes and suspended breath. The city had
disappeared.
Adan was the first to find speech. "A fog?" he asked. "A rain storm?"
"There is neither. The horizon is as blue and clear as it is on the
north and east and west. It is a miracle. Let me think a moment."
He sat down and took his head between his hands. After a while he looked
up. "For hours I have been trying to remember something," he said. "Do
you remember what that mayor domo said to us?--Keep straight on,
straight on, never turning to the left, for that way lies the terrible
Mojave desert, I barely heard his last words at the time; that is the
reason I have had such a time remembering. We are in the Mojave desert,
my friend."
Adan, whose mouth was still wide open, sat down and rolled his eyes from
east to west. "Caramba!" he ejaculated finally.
"I could say a good deal more than Caramba. All that I have heard of
this Mojave comes back to me. There is no water on it, no living thing
but half choked cacti and stunted palms. Men who are lost on it go mad
and die of thirst--"
"Ay, yi, yi!"
"Si, senor. However, it might be much worse. It is winter, not summer,--
when the heat kills in a day; we have food and a little wine; we are
young and very strong; we have not come so many leagues that we cannot
walk back. And we have each other. Think, were we alone!"
"Yes, it might be worse," said Adan, "but all the same it might be six
or eight leagues to the northwest better. And that city? What was it?
Where has it gone?"
"I do not know." Privately he believed that it had been a glimpse of
heaven, and was disturbed lest it might have been a portent of death.
But his mind was too active, his nature too independent to sit down
under superstition. If he died on the desert, it would not be through
lack of effort to get out of it.
He stood up, setting his lips. "Come," he said. "We gain nothing by
sitting here, and we are both fresh; we can walk many leagues before
night."
"Do you know which way to go?" asked Adan.
Roldan swept the horizon with his eyes. The buttes they had passed had
displaced the solitary landmark of the morning. There was not a hoof-
beat on the hard split ground. Roldan shrugged his shoulders.
"We can at least follow the sun. Los Angeles must be due west. Come."
The sun was past the zenith and sloping to the west. The boys turned
their backs upon it and trudged on, only pausing once for a half-hour to
divide the meagre remains of their store. Evening came; the