But he tried to make the baby smile for the American zonyas. The baby, too exhausted to cry any longer, was equally unable to smile, and this last baffled effort suddenly became rage. It was only a twist of the haggard face, an explosion in the depths of the man’s spirit, and, like an explosion, it was over before we saw it, leaving on our eyeballs a picture of something that no longer existed.
“He has a beautiful smile,” the father said, apologetically, “very beautiful,” and he took up his rifle.
“Long may you live,” we said. “Go on a smooth trail.”
In a moment the rain had blurred the figures of the man and the tiny donkey, moving slowly down the mountain side.
We wiped the streaming wet from our faces with water-withered hands, picked up our staffs, and drove our bodies again to their task of climbing. The burden of the world’s helplessness in misery was heavier on our spirits than the weight of water-soaked woolen on exhausted muscles. Why should man toil over such heart-breaking trails, endure and struggle through such sufferings, only to keep alight a little fire of life, when life means only suffering and painful effort? The rifle-shot which interrupted the question seemed an answer to it. We stopped, and the same thought was in all our eyes while we waited for the echoes of the shot to roll away like thunder among the cliffs.
Then Cheremi pressed his thumbs tightly against his ears and sent down the trail the wild high note of the “telephone call.” He waited, repeated it, repeated it once more. An answer came.
The man of Ipek had killed his donkey. It had slipped from the trail; it would not try to get up. And there on the mountain side, five hours from shelter, with night upon them, he had killed it.
“I wish you blind!” Cheremi called through the rain, and fired his rifle to end the talk.
We must help the man, we said. We must do something. But Cheremi and Perolli, in whom also weariness had become anger, went on over the ridge of the mountain, and we followed them. It was true; what could we do? We could not carry the donkey’s pack, the only goods left to the man of Ipek.
In half an hour we met a beautiful girl. Her hazel eyes and chestnut hair shone through the grayness of the rain, a wide silver-studded marriage belt held the dripping tatters of a Shala dress about her slender body, and her ankles were white above delicate feet bruised by the trails. She drove before her six starveling goats that constantly tried to evade her; they were traveling strange trails and wanted to turn homeward.