Read Ebook: The Rider of the Mohave: A Western Story by Fellom James

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Ebook has 1218 lines and 75572 words, and 25 pages

Nouns have three genders, the masculine, the feminine, and the neuter.

The masculine gender denotes males; as, Eneneh, man.

The feminine gender is applied to animals, fishes, and birds; as, Nahbak, a she bear, &c.

The neuter gender denotes things without sex; as, Wewahquon, a hat.

NUMBER.

Number is the distinction of objects as one or more.

Nouns are of two numbers, the singular and the plural.

The singular number implies but one object; as, Mahzenahegun, a book.

The plural number implies more than one; as, Mahzhenahegahnun, books.

CASE.

Nouns have three cases, the nominative, the possessive, and the objective.

The nominative case simply expresses the name of a thing, &c.; as, Owh quewesanceoobahkahmegezeh, thved those scenes, every one of them. They were big moments in her life; palpitating, vivid moments--moments that made her dreary, humdrum existence worth while to her.

"Nothing ever happens out here," she would sometimes murmur to the eternal sameness of the plains. "Nobody ever comes this way, even. I wish daddy would sell the ranch and move to Geerusalem or somewhere--where things happen, where people laugh and talk and visit."

On a number of occasions, Lemuel had found her sitting on the front porch, musing into the solitudes, eyes brilliant, cheeks aglow, her parted lips moving.

"Gosh, what a pity!" he had lamented to himself each time, as he went tiptoeing away. "It's them fine brains of hers workin'. I tell you, Em'ly, wife, she's goin' to be the great lady you figgered on, if I got to sell my soul to do it. I'm jest watchin' for a chanct. You wait an' see!"

It was well on toward noon of an August day. A fiery sun was churning the floor of Soapweed Plains into a stormy ocean of heat waves. Lemuel had gone to Geerusalem on his customary hobnobbing expedition. Dot, her housework completed, sat reading in the shade of the passion-flower vine that trellised the porch, a novel borrowed from Mrs. Agatha Liggs, a widow who kept a small dry goods store in the camp.

Suddenly, breaking on the dead silence like muffled shots, came the sound of hoofs. Dot dropped her book and sprang to her feet expectantly, for the riders who passed that way, bound to and from the unimportant desert station of Mirage, were few indeed and far between. The next instant she was staring at a lone horseman approaching, not along the road but from across country, from the direction of the violet and yellow scallop of range that formed the magical setting of all her romantic dreams!

She stared in unbelief, amazed for the moment. Then she noticed that he was hatless, that the whole side of his head, the whole front of his dirty, white shirt, were crimson with blood, that he reeled drunkenly, lifelessly in the saddle.

Aghast at the spectacle, she gazed on, rooted to the spot, until the exhausted horse stumbled up to the barred gate and stopped, drooping, rocking on quivering legs. Out of the gate she darted then, threw down the bars and led the animal up to the house, her heart fluttering with excitement and horror.

The rider was in a half swoon, mumbling thickly. Above his right ear was a long, bloody furrow, like the plow of a bullet. The bandanna he had had for a bandage had slipped down over his face, neglected. It was saturated. He had been bleeding for hours, was her horrifying thought. A glance told her that he was a stranger. That same glance informed her that he was probably twenty-five, fairly good-looking even through his coating of dust and blood, and that he wore a double cartridge belt and a brace of six-shooters, one of which he still held gripped in his hand.

Ordinarily, she would have been quite unable to handle the dead weight he represented, but now she managed to drag him out of the saddle and into the house without being particularly conscious of the effort. She got him on the parlor lounge finally and plunged into the work of bathing his wound and dressing it. Then she tore away his sodden shirts, replaced them with two of her father's, and brought a dipper of water and poured it in little swallows down his throat.

Seating herself in a chair beside him, she looked him over curiously, studied him. Who was he? What was he? The wound? Under less shocking circumstances, it was quite probable he would have proved a big treat to her vivid imagination. But now there somehow seemed to be too much tragic reality about him to make her care to commit him and his plight to the wild flings of fancy.

At last he opened his eyes and stared up at her vaguely. They were blue eyes. There was an odd, hunted glint in them, a smolder of recklessness, a shadow of sadness, exhaustion. He raised an uncertain hand to his bandaged head. He glanced around the room, then back at her, his wits clearing suddenly.

"Where am I? Whose--whose place is this?" he jerked out, with an effort.

"This is Lemuel Huntington's ranch. I'm his daughter, Dot." She thought a queer interest leaped into his eyes at the information. "You must be quiet, now. You've lost a lot of blood, but you'll be all right," she went on, when he did not speak. "If I fixed you something, could you eat?" She rose from her chair.

"They're safe outside," she nodded. "Do you want them?"

"Please, sister. Bring 'em here. Hurry! I--I want 'em handy."

She ran out of the front door to the horse which still stood, untethered, on sagging legs. Unfastening the leather containers, she carried them into the house. She remarked that while they were not especially heavy, they bulged to capacity, their flaps buckled securely. She remarked also the man's relief at sight of them and how profusely he thanked her. Then he instructed her to stow them under the head of the lounge and asked her for a drink of water. But when she returned with a dipperful, she found him sunk into a sleep of exhaustion. Whereupon she darkened the room, closed the door quietly behind her, and went outside again to look after the spent horse.

Watering the animal, she tied it in a stall in the barn to feed. Then she inspected the stranger's saddle carefully. It was typical of the parts, without an identifying mark of any kind upon it, except splashes of dried blood. Presently she fastened the barn door and re?ntered the house. Her mysterious patient still slept. It was a few minutes past noon, and she sat down to her customary warmed-over meal in the kitchen, but she could not eat.

As has been said, Dot Huntington was, notwithstanding her eighteen years, a child of romance. She had been "living scenes" ever since her mother told her the first bed-time story in the long, long ago. She had wished so many, many times in the past that something really thrilling might happen to her--a big, exciting adventure. At this moment she felt that that thrilling something had at last happened. Here was that big, exciting adventure begun. It was all like one of her tremendous, wonderful dreams come true.

She quivered rapturously in the realization that she was a flesh-and-blood factor in some great tragic mystery, that, hero or villain, this sick, wounded man was her patient, dependent on her. A surge of pity swept suddenly into her heart at the thought; an odd sense of responsibility followed, bringing with it a subtle gratification she keenly welcomed.

She told herself that this stranger had ridden in out of that vast mystic horizon where all her dreams had taken shape--like any one of the impossible beings she visualized--looking for attention, care, succor. Yes, she would heed his call--whether he was good or bad. Why, indeed, should she question the moral status of a man half dead? She sat for a long time, her warmed-over meal cold, ruminating thus. How he must have suffered out in that awful wilderness of sand and furnace heat!

Then again came the sound of approaching hoofs.

Starting up out of her chair, she listened. It was the gait of a fresh horse. If it were her father returning early from camp? If it were somebody else? She had not given this phase of the matter a thought. She had lost sight of embarrassing consequences developing. Now vague fears she could not analyze began to assail her.

The hoofs had fallen into a trot, had come to a halt out on the road, ere she flitted through the house, reached the front door and peered cautiously out. A man had just dismounted at the gate. He also was a stranger, a big, broad man about fifty, wearing a split-crown sombrero, unusually wide of brim, and baggy trousers stuffed into high-heeled boots. He too was coated with the dust of long riding, his iron-gray mustache almost invisibly white with it, his six-shooter holsters standing out from his hips.

In the act of lowering the bars, he stooped to examine something on the ground. His appearance, coupled with this last suspicious move, sufficed to stamp him an officer of the law, even though he was not wearing his identifying star of authority.

Dot watched him a few seconds, reasoning that were he an officer, he undoubtedly hailed from San Buenaventura, the county seat, as she was well acquainted with the constable and deputy sheriffs who made their headquarters in Geerusalem. With this decision, she closed the door, locked it, and rushed into the parlor. Her patient was sleeping heavily. She shook him by the shoulder.

"Wake up! Wake up! There's a--a sheriff outside!" she whispered hoarsely into his ear.

He scrambled off the lounge in a panic, wild-eyed, groggy, a curse bursting from his lips.

A strange ominous fire was playing in Dot's eyes. She was pale, but dangerously calm. She leaned over him and caught him quickly around the middle with her right arm.

"Come! Stand up! He won't dare go into my room."

He blundered to his feet, then through the small dining room and into her own quarters, adjoining the kitchen, she finally staggered with him and helped him onto her bed.

"Not a sound, now!" she warned.

"I'll never ferget you for this, Miss--Miss Huntington," he said hoarsely.

She closed the door after her as she went out, locked it, and hurriedly arranged her appearance before the wall glass in the kitchen. Then she threw on a sunbonnet and took a glistening something out of a drawer in the cupboard. She walked out of the back door, just as the stranger, having finished his investigations at the gate, approached along the driveway, leading his horse. He touched his hat to her as she came in view around the corner of the house, one hand hidden in the folds of her skirt.

"I jest dropped in to get a swaller of water for Chain Lightnin'--if you don't mind," he said pleasantly. "It's right hot travelin'."

"I shouldn't wonder. Help yourself." She indicated the trough near by. She looked him over, with obvious suspicion.

While his horse drank, the visitor's eyes wandered apparently aimlessly over the vicinity; they took in the girl, the buildings, the fresh hoofprints in the mud around the trough. He even hearkened to the munching of an animal in the barn--hungry munching, that was. Presently he sauntered back to her and halted a step away.

"You didn't happen to see a feller ride by this way an hour or so ago, miss? Mighta looked shot--bleedin' bad?" he said, watching her narrowly.

He burst into a heavy chuckle, mopped his red face, but kept his hawklike eye riveted on her. "I see. Of course, if he was here you'd jest nacherly out with it, sence they ain't no reason why you shouldn't, eh?"

"Well, I declare! You're awfully clever. You've read my mind--almost," she exclaimed, giving him a radiant, tantalizing smile.

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