Bred of the Desert: A Horse and a Romance

by Charles M. Horton

It was late afternoon when Helen came down from her room. She had regained her calm. The Judge had gone about his affairs, her aunt was deep in her siesta, the Mexican woman was bustling about in the kitchen. Refusing this kindly soul’s offer of food, she walked listlessly into the library and sank into a huge chair. Spring was well advanced, yet there was an open fire. Elbows upon the arms of her chair, hands clasped under her chin, she turned unseeing eyes upon the flickering flames. Motionless, barely breathing, she was a picture of hopeless grief.

Yet her thoughts were active. One after another the swift-moving events of the night before came to her–a night of delightful happenings and torturing surprises. She recalled that the crowd had been unusually gay, but that Stephen had been unusually quiet and absorbed. She remembered the games, and the story-telling, and the toasting of marshmallows in the grate. But over against these simple pleasures there had been Stephen, entering into the gaiety only because he must, now forcing a smile, now drawing back within himself, until a chorus of laughter would again force him to smile. Yet she had understood, and she had excused him. She had thought him resigned and content to be merely one of the crowd. And then had come that opportunity which evidently he had sought. It had come as a surprise. But with it had come also a sudden desire to be alone with him, and to impress upon him her convictions. So they had gone out into the moonlight, to the corral fence, and to Pat, where she had endeavored to make everything clear. And then their return, and the departure of her guests, and his lingering on the porch, and his decision to go away, to leave her for ever. He hadn’t put it in just that way! But that was what he was doing–that was what he had done. He had gone from her for ever.

The thought hurt. It hurt because she knew what part she had taken in it. She knew that she herself had sent him away. And when he had left her she knew, as she knew now, that in her heart she did not want it. For she liked him–liked his society. She liked his care-free manner, his whimsical outlook upon her country, his many natural talents–his playing, and the naïveté of his singing, while he often admitted that his voice hurt him, and so must hurt others. No, she had not wanted him to go away. And somehow it had never occurred to her that he would go for ever. But he was gone, and she could not resign herself. Yet there was no calling him back. She had made a decision, had forced him to understand certain things. So she must accept it. But it hurt. It was slowly dawning upon her that she would never forget him.

Then another thought came to her. Since he was going, and since she had sent him away, it occurred to her that she ought to help him. It seemed to be her duty. Yet she could not determine how. He was going forth to prove himself. He would go where men only could go, and she was but a woman. And she wanted him to prove himself–she knew that–knew it more with every moment that passed. She believed he had it in him. Yet she might help in some way. She wanted to be of some use to him in his undertaking. What could she do?

Suddenly, as she sat there, seemingly powerless, there came a shrill nicker whipping across from the corral–the voice of Pat.

Like a flash she had it! Stephen would go into the cattle country–she believed that. And in the cattle country he would need a horse, a good horse, such a horse as Pat. She would present the horse to Stephen! She would send Pat with him because she herself could not go with him. This she could do. Thus she would help Stephen to find himself, as her ancestors had found themselves. She would help him to become what she wanted him to become–a man–a man! Yes, she would give Pat to Stephen. She would send the horse as she had sent the man–forth into the world of deeds–deeds denied her sex.

She rose hurriedly and ascended to her room. At her desk she drew paper and pen toward her.

My dear Stephen [she began her letter],–I am sending Pat to you through Miguel. I wanted to help you in some way. I cannot help you myself directly, but in Pat I feel you will have a valuable aid. Take him–take him with my dearest and best wishes for your success. Pat may actually show you the way–may actually point the way out to you. Who knows? He understands who you are, I know, and I am sure he knows what you have been, and what you still are, to me.

Helen.

For a moment she sat deep in thought. Then suddenly awaking to the lateness of the hour, she arose and, going to the corral, called to the hostler. Miguel appeared, and she handed him the note, giving him careful instructions the while in regard to the horse. The Mexican smiled and entered the stable in quest of saddle and bridle, the while she turned to Pat in his corner and explained what she was about to do.