then he was gone, as if he had never been, and we heard no other sound.
Farley looked over at my father and shook his head in what must have been wonder, and Miss Nesselrode simply stood looking into the dying fire for a minute, then looked at Papa.
"He's quite a wonderful man, isn't he?"
"He's an old devil," my father said, "but he is a wonderful man, too, and you, I think, have made a friend." "I doubt I shall ever see him again."
"That may be, but he will not forget you. And do not underestimate the man." My father coughed slightly; then he said, "Some of the mountain men were finely educated, some were not, but all were extremely practical men whose minds were beautifully tuned. They could not be dull, for to let their wits dull was to invite death.
"One does not need education to be intelligent, and these men might be short on what educated men use in the way of information, but their wits were sharp, their minds were alert, they were prepared to move, to change, to adapt at the slightest need.
"All about them were conditions and circumstances to which they must adjust, attack by Indians or outlaw trappers was an ever-present danger, they lived on the very knife-edge of reality, and when this is so, the mind becomes a beautifully tuned instrument.
"They did not fall into patterns or ruts. There were none. Each day was different, each brought new problems. No two traps could ever be set exactly the same. Whatever else you could say of these men, they were intelligent in the finest sense. Peg-Leg Smith is one of them. The men of whom he spoke were also mountain men, but of different character than Smith. When the money went out of the fur trade, they did not hesitate. They looked about for other opportunities, and in Los Angeles they found them."
Farley stood up and brushed off his pants. "It is late," he said, "and tomorrow we go down into the real desert." "Good night, gentlemen," Miss Nesselrode said, and she went away to the wagon.
When she was gone, Farley looked at my father. "Do you think he will come back?"
"No." He paused. "Oddly enough, the man's a gentleman, in his own way. If I were you, I'd keep watch, bu t I'd bet every dollar I have that we will not see him again."
My father turned away toward his blanket roll. "Hannes, I'm tired. You'll have to help me with my boots."
Chapter 8
In the night I was suddenly awakened--by what sound or sense, I do not know. Listening ... All was still.
From under the wagon I could look out and see the morning star hanging in the sky like a light in a distant window. Then I thought of my grandfather, that fierce old man who hated us so, and whom I had never seen. Under the blankets I shrank, my stomach tied in a knot of fear.
"I am Johannes Verne," I whispered to myself. "I shall not be afraid."
Over and over I said it, and the words seemed to ease the tightness, and after a while I lay quiet, but wide-awake. Carefully, not to disturb my father, who lay close by, I slid from under the blankets and went out to stand alone in the night.
There was a step behind me, and turning, I saw Jacob Finney. "Can't sleep?" Finney asked very softly.
"I was awake." Then I said, "I like it. The desert, I mean. I like the desert nights, and the stars."
"Yeah, me too. No matter how hot it is by day, the nights are cool. It's a resting time."
"Sometimes I think there's something out there, something calling to me, only I can't hear anything."
"I know." Finney got out his pipe and began to stoke it. "Some folks can't abide the desert, but those who love it, like you an' me, for them there's no place like it. Kind of magic."
"My mother loved the desert."
"Spanish girl, wasn't she?"
"Yes, sir. Her name was Consuelo."
"It has a lovely sound." He lit his pipe. "Knowed a Spanish girl once, down Sonora way. I guess I was in love with her, but then there was trouble and I killed a man. Shot him. I had to leave. By now she's married to somebody else an' prob'ly never thinks of
Farley looked over at my father and shook his head in what must have been wonder, and Miss Nesselrode simply stood looking into the dying fire for a minute, then looked at Papa.
"He's quite a wonderful man, isn't he?"
"He's an old devil," my father said, "but he is a wonderful man, too, and you, I think, have made a friend." "I doubt I shall ever see him again."
"That may be, but he will not forget you. And do not underestimate the man." My father coughed slightly; then he said, "Some of the mountain men were finely educated, some were not, but all were extremely practical men whose minds were beautifully tuned. They could not be dull, for to let their wits dull was to invite death.
"One does not need education to be intelligent, and these men might be short on what educated men use in the way of information, but their wits were sharp, their minds were alert, they were prepared to move, to change, to adapt at the slightest need.
"All about them were conditions and circumstances to which they must adjust, attack by Indians or outlaw trappers was an ever-present danger, they lived on the very knife-edge of reality, and when this is so, the mind becomes a beautifully tuned instrument.
"They did not fall into patterns or ruts. There were none. Each day was different, each brought new problems. No two traps could ever be set exactly the same. Whatever else you could say of these men, they were intelligent in the finest sense. Peg-Leg Smith is one of them. The men of whom he spoke were also mountain men, but of different character than Smith. When the money went out of the fur trade, they did not hesitate. They looked about for other opportunities, and in Los Angeles they found them."
Farley stood up and brushed off his pants. "It is late," he said, "and tomorrow we go down into the real desert." "Good night, gentlemen," Miss Nesselrode said, and she went away to the wagon.
When she was gone, Farley looked at my father. "Do you think he will come back?"
"No." He paused. "Oddly enough, the man's a gentleman, in his own way. If I were you, I'd keep watch, bu t I'd bet every dollar I have that we will not see him again."
My father turned away toward his blanket roll. "Hannes, I'm tired. You'll have to help me with my boots."
Chapter 8
In the night I was suddenly awakened--by what sound or sense, I do not know. Listening ... All was still.
From under the wagon I could look out and see the morning star hanging in the sky like a light in a distant window. Then I thought of my grandfather, that fierce old man who hated us so, and whom I had never seen. Under the blankets I shrank, my stomach tied in a knot of fear.
"I am Johannes Verne," I whispered to myself. "I shall not be afraid."
Over and over I said it, and the words seemed to ease the tightness, and after a while I lay quiet, but wide-awake. Carefully, not to disturb my father, who lay close by, I slid from under the blankets and went out to stand alone in the night.
There was a step behind me, and turning, I saw Jacob Finney. "Can't sleep?" Finney asked very softly.
"I was awake." Then I said, "I like it. The desert, I mean. I like the desert nights, and the stars."
"Yeah, me too. No matter how hot it is by day, the nights are cool. It's a resting time."
"Sometimes I think there's something out there, something calling to me, only I can't hear anything."
"I know." Finney got out his pipe and began to stoke it. "Some folks can't abide the desert, but those who love it, like you an' me, for them there's no place like it. Kind of magic."
"My mother loved the desert."
"Spanish girl, wasn't she?"
"Yes, sir. Her name was Consuelo."
"It has a lovely sound." He lit his pipe. "Knowed a Spanish girl once, down Sonora way. I guess I was in love with her, but then there was trouble and I killed a man. Shot him. I had to leave. By now she's married to somebody else an' prob'ly never thinks of
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