“Wansfell, every move you can make on this desert is a risk,” replied Dismukes, seriously. “Learn that right off. But I’m sure. Only accidents or unforeseen circumstances ever make risks for me now. I’m what they call a desert rat.”
“You’re most kind,” said Adam, choking up again, “to help a stranger—this way.”
“Boy, I don’t call that help,” declared Dismukes. “That’s just doin’ for a man as I’d want to be done by. When I talked about help I meant somethin’ else.”
“What? God knows I need it. I’ll be grateful. I’ll do as you tell me,” replied Adam, with a strange thrill stirring in him.
“You are a boy—no matter if you’re bigger than most men. You’ve got the mind of a boy. What a damn pity you’ve got to do this hidin’ game!” Under strong feeling the prospector got up, and, emptying his pipe, he began to take short strides to and fro in the limited shade cast by the ironwood tree. The indomitable force of the man showed in his step, in the way he carried himself. Presently he turned to Adam and the great ox eyes burned intensely. “Wansfell, if you were a man I’d never feel the way I do. But you’re only a youngster—you’re not bad—you’ve had bad luck—an’ for you I can break my rule—an’ I’ll do it if you’re in earnest. I’ve never talked about the desert—about its secrets—what it’s taught me. But I’ll tell you what the desert is—how it’ll be your salvation—how to be a wanderer of the wasteland is to be strong, free, happy—if you are honest, if you’re big enough for it.”
“Dismukes, I swear I’m honest—and I’ll be big, by God! or I’ll die trying,” declared Adam, passionately.
The prospector gave Adam a long, steady stare, a strange gaze such as must have read his soul.
“Wansfell, if you can live on the desert you’ll grow like it,” he said, solemnly, as if he were pronouncing a benediction.
Adam gathered from this speech that Dismukes meant to unbosom himself of many secrets of this wonderful wasteland. Evidently, however, the prospector was not then ready to talk further. With thoughtful mien and plodding gait he resumed his short walk to and fro. It struck Adam then that his appearance was almost as ludicrous as that of his burros, yet at the same time his presence somehow conveyed a singular sadness. Years of loneliness burdened the wide bowed shoulders of this desert man. Adam divined then, in a gust of gratitude, that this plodding image of Dismukes would always remain in his mind as a picture, a symbol of the actual good in human nature.
The hot day closed without Adam ever venturing out of the shade of the tree. Once or twice he had put his hand in a sunny spot to feel the heat, and it had burned. The night mantled down with its intense silence, all-embracing, and the stars began to glow white. As Dismukes sat down near Adam in the glow of the camp fire it was manifest, from the absence of his pipe and the penetrating, possession-taking power of his eyes, that he was under the dominance of a singular passion.