The Loom of the Desert

by Idah Meacham Strobridge

The burros were left in undisturbed possession of the mesa the rest of the stifling hot day, while they browsed along on the greasewood. Late in the afternoon their little hoofs turned into a wild horse trail which led them, single-file, down to the river where the mealy muzzles were plunged into the swift, muddy current for a drink.

But while they had been munching the uninviting brush and sage, and flicking the flies away with their absurd paint-brush tails, Harvey Austin, over on the foothills near the Cedars, sat in the tent which was now the only home he knew; and with his hat fanned the face of the one whom the horse-hunters had named “The Kid.”

The boy, who had been ailing, was asleep now; but the flushed cheeks, and parched lips that were always calling for water, were cause enough for the fear that came over Austin as he sat there. What if this were but the beginning of a long fever? Suppose there should be a serious illness for him?

Again Austin asked himself the same questions that he was putting to himself daily. What had the future in store for them? From here, where were they to go? To stay through the long winter, with the mercury below zero, and the wild blasts of wind about their tent—perhaps to be buried in deep snow—all these things were not to be considered for a moment. Before the coming of winter they must go. But where? Only away from civilization were they safe.

He had come to see, at last, that they had both made a horrible mistake of life. In the beginning of this, it had not seemed so; things looked differently—at first. But, at times, of late there had come a feeling of repulsion over him for which he could not account. Was it the aftermath of wrong-doing? Well, he must make the best of it; it was too late to undo all that had been done. He must bear it—the larger share—as best he could. He said to himself that, thank God! at least he was enough of a man to hide from the “little one” what he himself was beginning to feel.

It is the great immutable law that the fruits of pleasure, plucked by the hands of sin, shall turn to bitterness between the lips. For sin, there is suffering; and for wrong-doing, regret. None escape the great law of compensation. Justice must have payment for the defiance of her laws.

Austin drew his breath in sharply. Oh, merciful God! how long was this way of living to last? Why, he might live on thirty—forty—fifty years yet! Penniless, what was their future to be? To return to that world which, through their past years, had surrounded them with all those things that make life worth living, would be to tempt a worse fate than awaited them here. The desolation which spread around them in the foothills of the bare, lonely mountains was as naught to the humiliation of returning to the peopled places where most would know them, yet few would choose to recognize.

It had not seemed that the price they would have to pay would be so dear when first he had faced the possible results of their rash act. Was it only a twelve-month ago? Why, it might have been twelve times twelve, so long ago did it seem since he was walking among men holding his head up, and looking fearlessly into the eyes of honest fellows who greeted him with warm hand-clasps.

His face had a strained look as he let his eyes fall on the unconscious figure beside him; and a strange expression—almost one of aversion—swept across his features. But he drew himself up quickly, tossing his head back with a movement as though—by the act—he could cast off something which might, perhaps, master him. For some time he sat there, his sensitive, refined face rigid and set, fixing his eyes on vacancy. Then he sank back, sighing wearily.

Before him was memory’s moving panorama of a splendid past. Out of the many pictures—plainer than all the rest—rose the face of the man who had befriended him; the one to whom he owed all he had ever been, or enjoyed. The one but for whom he would have been left, when a boy, to the chill charity of strangers. From that generous hand he had received an education befitting the heir to great wealth, and that noble heart had given such love and care as few sons receive from a parent. He could now, in recollection, see the austere face of his guardian softening into affectionate smiles as his tender gaze fell on his two wards—himself, and the pretty, willful Mildred. Only they whom he so fondly loved knew the great depths of tenderness and gentleness in his nature. It stung Austin now to think of it; it shamed him as well.