Lost Pueblo (1992) (17 page)

Soon she yielded to a desire to sit down and think about herself. What had happened? She went over it all. Where had vanished the delight, the inexplicable joy she had anticipated? Randolph's sad face had checked her, changed the direction of her thoughts. She felt so sorry for him that she wanted to weep. Resuming her journey back to camp she went on a little way, then stopped again. Something was wrong. Her breast seemed oppressed, her heart too full. She felt it pound. Surely she had not exerted herself enough for that. No--the commotion was emotional. She had sustained an unaccountable transition. She was no longer the old Janey Endicott. A last time she sat down to fight it out--to face her soul. After all how easy! Only to be honest! For the first time in her life, she was honestly, deeply, truly in love. No need of wild wonderings, of whirling repudiations! She had fallen in love with this adventure, with the glorious desert, with the lonely soul-transforming canyons, and with Phillip Randolph.

The instant the solution flashed out of her brooding mind she knew it was the truth. It seemed annihilation of self-catastrophe, yet it held a paralyzing sweetness. Janey received the blow of her consciousness, like a soldier, full in the face, while she was gazing down the canyon, now magnifying its gold and purple, its wonderful speaking cliffs.

Then she heard the thud of hoofs. A horse! Startled, she turned the corner of the wall that separated her from camp. Her alarm vanished in amazement at sight of a dudish young man dismounting from a pinto mustang as flashy as its rider. He wore a ten-gallon sombrero that appeared to make him top heavy; white moleskin riding trousers, tight at the knees, high shiny boots and enormous spurs that tripped him as he walked. Janey then recognized this young man, Bert Durland, the darling of many week-end parties, a slick, dark, dapper youth just out of college. Also she heard more thuds of hoofs and voices coming. Cursing to herself, Janey slipped in behind a section of rock that had split from the cliff, and ran along it to the far end, where she crouched down to peep through a crack.

Chapter
8

Janey was amazed, curious, resentful at this rude disruption of her rapture. Bert was a nice kid, but to meet him here! Where she was alone with Randolph!

Two riders appeared above the bulge of the bench, off to the left. One was an Indian, leading a pack horse. Presently Janey made out the second rider to be a woman. Mrs. Durland! No human creature could have looked more out of place, or uncomfortable, or ridiculous. Mrs. Durland's marked characteristic had been dressing and playing a part to improve the family fortunes. Here, if Janey had not been suddenly furious, she could have shrieked. They approached camp. The Indian dismounted and began to slip the pack. Bert went to his mother's assistance. Manifestly it was no joke to get her off a horse. She was heavy, and looked as if her bones had stiffened.

"0 mercy! My muscles--my flesh!" she wailed.

"Cheer up, Mother. We're here at last," replied Bert, with satisfaction.

"This is the place then?" she asked, peering round in disgust.

"Beckyshibeta."

"It looks like it sounds. I don't see much of a camp. Mr. Endicott said his daughter was here with some friends."

"Perhaps this is the guides' camp. We'll look around and find them. My word! It'll be good to see Janey!"

"Bert, our Indian is riding away!" exclaimed Mrs. Durland, in alarm.

"I understood he was going to see his family."

"Suppose he doesn't come back? Suppose we don't find Miss Endicott and party! Here we are in a godforsaken hole a hundred and ninety miles from a railroad. Nothing but a lot of wild Indians around. We may get scalped."

"You needn't worry, Mother," returned Bert. "You'd never get scalped. You can take off your hair and hand it over. I'm the one to worry."

"Bert Durland! How dare you talk that way? You ought at least be respectful after my being good enough to let you drag me out here."

"Pardon, Mother," said the youth, contritely. "I'm sore. This beastly trip through all that horrible desert! And no sign of comfort here. It's most annoying."

"Whose fault is it?" queried Mrs. Durland, as she carefully looked round a rock to see if there were snakes or bugs present. Then very wearily she sat down.

"Yours," returned young Durland, looking at his drooping horse. "I suppose I'll have to remove that awful saddle."

"My fault? You miserable boy!" exclaimed his mother, highly indignant. "You know I'm doing it all for you. Chasing this worthless girl! I've suffered agonies on this ride. And that horrid place where we tried to sleep last night! Will I ever forget it? And this awful sunburn!"

"Janey isn't quite worthless, Mother dear," rejoined Bert, complacently. "Her dad has several millions. And Janey is pretty well fixed. You know that's why you're here."

"There's gratitude for you," declared Mrs. Durland, witheringly. "Here I am trying to make it easy for you. You who've gone through most of your father's money. Now you make it appear I'm doing this for myself."

"All right! All right!" said Bert, impatiently. "But don't blame me for bringing you on this particular wild-goose chase. I didn't like the idea, believe me. I told you in New York that Endicott was taking Janey to a tourist hotel. That's what I believed then."

"Didn't you say Janey told you her father was taking her into one of the loneliest places in the world?"

"I sure did. Mother, Arizona looks to me to be about half of the United States. And it's lonely all right, all right. Imagine fine-combing this desert all to hunt up a girl! That fellow who charged a hundred dollars for a car ride that scrambled my insides! I'd like to get hold of him. Mother, I've an idea Endicott and that trader Bennet were laughing at us up their sleeves."

"Humph! That dirty-looking trader laughed in my face," asserted Mrs. Durland. "And as for the wasting of a whole hundred dollars that's your fault, too. You never knew how to bargain. You just threw money away. It drives me mad. You have no backbone, no stamina. Otherwise you'd have eloped with Janey before her father ran off with her to this terrible place of rocks."

"Eloped! My dear Mother, you don't know Janey Endicott," returned her son, significantly.

"Perhaps we'd better not talk so loud or mention names," remarked Mrs. Durland, apprehensively.

"Didn't you try to tell that Indian guide and the car driver our family history?... Hello! Here comes a white man! Tough-looking customer!"

"Oh, dear, I hope he isn't a desperado," replied Mrs. Durland, in alarm.

This last from mother to son tickled Janey so keenly that she was hard put to it to keep from side-splitting laughter. She peeped round the edge of her covert. Yes, Phil was coming. He had spied the visitors, and he was peering everywhere for Janey.

"How do you do," greeted Randolph, as he came up. "Your Indian told me of your arrival."

"Very nice of him to find someone," returned Mrs. Durland, gratefully.

"Whom have I the pleasure of addressing?"

"Mrs. Percival Smith Durland, of New York, and her son Bertrand. Of course you've heard of us."

"I regret to say I never have."

Janey giggled inwardly at this slight, because she had more than once told Phil about the Durlands.

"Indeed. I see. You've never been away from this raw crude Arizona," replied Mrs. Durland, apologizing for his ignorance. "Do many tourists come here to this Becky--something or other?"

"Very few. We don't encourage them."

"There, Mother. I told you so," broke in Bert, who had been staring hard at Randolph. "Is there any resort for tourists near?" asked Mrs. Durland.

"Bennet's trading post is the nearest habitation of white folks. But you'd hardly call it a resort."

"I should say not. We stopped there to get ready for this trip... May I ask your name?"

"Phillip Randolph, at your service, Madam."

"Randolph? Surely that's the name we heard. You're an archaeologist, I understand."

"Yes, Madam," returned Randolph, shortly. "Work for the government, don't you?"

"Yes."

"And you're the Mr. Randolph. Well, I'm sorry for you. There's a Mr. Elliot at the post now. He came the day we arrived. He's from Washington, D. C. I heard Mr. Bennet say he was furious that you had gone to this Becky--place before the time scheduled, and it would likely cost you your job."

"Mr. Elliot at the post! Well, that is a surprise," returned Randolph, quite perturbed.

"I daresay. It's too bad. I'm sorry for you. But you might find decent work somewhere. You look stronger than those bowlegged cowboys."

"Thank you. Yes, I think I am rather strong. You spoke of cowboys. Were they--did you see any round the post?"

"Cowboys! I rather think so. They nearly rode us down. Stopped our car to keep us from being killed by stampeding cattle. One of them was tow-headed, and pretty fresh, to say the least."

"Cattle stampede! Oh, Lord!" muttered Randolph, in distress.

"What did you say?" asked Mrs. Durland. "I--I was just talking to myself," replied Randolph, hastily.

"We are looking for Miss Janey Endicott and her party," interrupted Bert, with importance. "I'll give you ten dollars to guide us to her camp."

"There you go, Bert Durland, flinging money to the four winds," declared his mother.

"Miss Janey Endicott and party!" echoed Randolph.

"That's what I said," returned the young man, testily. "Mr. Endicott informed me. I'm a very dear friend of Janey's--in fact of the family."

"Did Endicott say how many were in the party?" inquired Randolph.

"No. I gathered there were several. People from the post. Where are they camped?"

"Not here. I have not seen any--party. Do you mean you've ridden all the way out here to see Miss Endicott?"

"Certainly. Do you know her?" replied Bert, suspiciously.

"I think I've seen the young woman," said Randolph, dryly.

"You haven't. Any man who ever saw Janey Endicott wouldn't think he'd seen her. He'd never forget her."

"Oh, excuse me, perhaps I'm wrong. The person I saw was about twenty, and acted fifteen, and dressed as if she were ten. Very coy and vivacious, and wild, I may say. She was not bad looking."

"Miss Endicott is strikingly beautiful, one of the loveliest girls in New York," returned young Durland, grandly.

The expression on Phil's face made Janey want to shout with glee.

Mrs. Durland had been looking at the bits of broken pottery and stone utensils which lay carefully arranged on a flat rock.

"Is this the kind of bric-a-brac you dig for?" she inquired. "You appear to be careless with it."

"It's broken when we find it, Madam. I could not be careless with such priceless relics."

"Priceless? That lot of junk!" interposed Bert, in amazement.

"We would like to see a little of your--your place here," said Mrs. Durland, graciously. "Then I will engage you to fmd Miss Endicott's camp for us."

"Beckyshibeta is very dangerous," returned Randolph. "You have to climb over rough rocks."

"Excuse me from climbing. But we'll take a look. Come, son."

"I don't care anything about Bechyshib--or Beckysharp," responded Bert. "I want to see Janey Endicott."

"What! After our long journey out here to see this wonderful place?"

"You called it beastly before Professor Randolph dropped in," replied Bert, scornfully.

"Oh, dear, this generation. No appreciation of art or love of the beautiful!"

"I'll have a look up the canyon to see if Miss Endicott--and party--are camped near," said Randolph, moving away with Mrs. Durland.

Bert unsaddled his horse. Janey, convinced that the Durlands would fmd her sooner or later, preferred to surprise Bert. So she took advantage of his occupation with horse and saddle to run back the way she had come. Then she boldly turned round the corner. Durland was sauntering here and there, inspecting the camp, plainly nonplused. Presently he heard Janey's step and wheeled.

"Oh!" cried Janey, starting back.

"Janey!" he burst out, rapturously. "What luck! By heaven, I'm glad to see you!"

"Young man, you frightened me," returned Janey. "What are you doing here?"

Suddenly his gaze took in her apparel and his eyes popped. Janey had not realized until that moment what a scarecrow she must look like.

"Janey Endicott! Good Lord! What a getup you've got on! You look like a ballet dancer. Mother will have a fit!... Why, you look..."

"See here, boy, you're pretty impudent."

"Why all the bluff, Janey?" he asked with a laugh. "It's great to see you again, even if you are a sight to make Park Avenue weep."

He approached her with outstretched arms and unmistakable intention.

"Don't you dare. I'll yell for my husband," cried Janey.

"Husband? Now look here. This sounds serious."

"I said my husband."

"Janey Endicott with a husband! Impossible!"

"I'm Mrs. Phillip Randolph, wife of the archaeologist in charge of the excavation here!"