“Wansfell,” spoke up Dismukes, “you need your hair cut.”
“Maybe. But I’m glad it was long to-day when I got hit with the shovel.”
“You sure did come near gettin’ it cut then,” replied Dismukes, with a hard laugh. “I’ll tell you what your long hair reminds me of. Years ago I met a big fellow on the desert. Six feet three he was, an’ ’most as big as you. An’ a darn good pard on the trail. Well, he wore his hair very long. It hid his ears. An’ in the hottest weather he never let me cut it. Well, the funny part all came out one day. Not so funny for him, to think of it!... We met men on the trail. They shot him an’ were nigh on to doin’ for me.... My big pardner was a horse thief. He’d had his ears cut off for stealin’ horses. An’ so he wore his hair long like yours to hide the fact he had no ears.”
“Friend Dismukes, I have ears, if my long hair is worrying you,” replied Adam. “And if I had not had mighty keen ears you’d still be grinding gold for your claim jumpers.”
At dusk, while the big bats darted overhead with soft swishing of wings, and the camp fire burned down to red and glowing embers, Dismukes talked and talked. And always he returned to the subject of gold and of his future.
“Pard, I wish you were goin’ with me,” he said, and the slow, sweeping gesture of the great horny hand had something of sublimity. He waved it away toward the east, and it signified the far places across the desert. “I’m rich. The years of lonely hell an’ never-endin’ toil are over. No more sour dough! No more thirst an’ heat an’ dust! No more hoardin’ of gold! The time has come for me to spend. I’ll bank my gold an’ draw my checks. At Frisco I’ll boil the alkali out of my carcass, an’, shaved an’ clipped an’ dressed, I’ll take again the name of my youth an’ fare forth for adventure. I’ll pay for the years of hard grub. I’ll eat the best an’ drink wine—wine—the sweetest an’ oldest of wine! Wine in thin glasses.... I’ll wear silk next my skin an’ sleep on feathers. I’ll travel like a prince. I can see the big niggers roll their eyes. ‘Yas, sah, yas sah, the best for you, sah!’ An’ I’ll tip them in gold.... I’ll go to my old home. Some of my people will be livin’. An’ when they see me they’ll see their ship come in. They’ll be rich. I’ll not forget the friends of my youth. That little village will have a church or a park as my gift. I’ll travel. I’ll see the sights an’ the cities. New York! Ha! if I like that place, I’ll buy it! I’ll see all there is to see, buy all there is to buy. I’ll be merry, I’ll be joyful. I’ll live. I’ll make up for all the lost years. But I’ll never forget the poor an’ the miserable. I can spend an’ give a hundred dollars a day for the rest of my life. I’ll cross the ocean. London! I’ve met Englishmen in the Southwest. Queer, cold sort of men! I’ll see how they live. I’ll go all over England. Then Paris! Never was I drunk, but I’ll get drunk in Paris. I want to see the wonderful hotels an’ shops an’ theaters. I’ll look at the beautiful French actresses. I’ll go to hear the prima donnas sing. I’ll throw gold double-eagles on the stage. An’ I’ll take a fly at Monte Carlo. An’ travel on an’ on. To Rome, that great city where the thrones of the emperors still stand. I’ll go spend a long hour high up in the ruins of the Coliseum. An’ dreamin’ of the days of the Cæsars—seein’ the gladiators in the arena—I’ll think of you, Wansfell. For there never lived on the old earth a greater fighter than you!... Egypt, the land of sun an’ sand! I’ll see the grand Sahara. An’ I’ll travel on an’ on, all over the world. When I’ve seen it I’ll come back to my native land. An’ then, that green farm, with wooded hills an’ runnin’ streams! It must be near a city. Horses I’ll have an’ a man to drive, an’ a house of comfort.... Mebbe there’ll come a woman into my life. Mebbe children! The thought you planted in me, pard, somehow makes me yearn. After all, every man should have a son. I see that now. What blunders we make! But I’m rich, I’m not so old, I’ll drink life to the very lees.... I see the lights, I hear the voices of laughter an’ music, I feel the comfortin’ walls of a home. A roof over my head! An’ a bed as soft as downy feathers!... Mebbe, O my pard, mebbe the sweet smile of a woman—the touch of a lovin’ hand—the good-night kiss of a child!... My God! how the thoughts of life can burn an’ thrill!”
* * * * *
Twenty miles a day, resting several hours through the fierce noon heat, the travelers made down across the Mohave Desert. To them, who had conquered the terrible elements and desolation of Death Valley, this waste of the Mohave presented comparatively little to contend with. Still, hardened and daring as they were, they did not incur unnecessary risks.
The time was September, at the end of a fierce, dry summer. Cloudless sky, fervid and quivering air, burning downward rays of sun and rising veils of reflected heat from sand and rock—these were not to be trifled with. Dismukes’ little thermometer registered one hundred and thirty degrees in the shade; that is, whenever there was any shade to rest in. They did not burden themselves with the worry of knowing the degrees of heat while they were on the march.
Water holes well known to Dismukes, though out of the beaten track, were found to be dry; and so the travelers had to go out of a direct line to replenish their supply. Under that burning sun even Dismukes and Adam suffered terribly after several hours without water. A very fine penetrating alkali dust irritated throat and nostrils and augmented the pain of thirst. Once they went a whole day without water, and at sundown reached a well kept by a man who made a living by selling water to prospectors and freighters and drivers of borax wagons. His prices were exorbitant. On this occasion, surlily surveying the parched travelers and the thirsty burros, he said his well was almost dry and he would not sell any water. Dismukes had told Adam that the well-owner bore him a grudge. They expostulated and pleaded with him to no avail. Adam went to the well and, lifting a trap-door, he peered down, to see quite a goodly supply of water. Then he returned to the little shack where the bushy-whiskered hoarder of precious water sat on a box with a rifle across his knees. Adam always appeared mild and serene, except when he was angry, at which time a man would have had to be blind not to see his mood. The well-owner probably expected Adam to plead again. But he reckoned falsely. Adam jerked the rifle from him and with a single movement of his hands he broke off the stock. Then he laid those big, hard hands on the man, who seemed to shrink under them.