“Wansfell,” he began, in low, deep voice, “it took me many years to learn how to live on the desert. I had the strength an’ the vitality of ten ordinary men. Many times in those desperate years was I close to death from thirst—from starvation—from poison water—from sickness—from bad men—and last, though not least—from loneliness. If I had met a man like myself, as I am now, I might have been spared a hell of sufferin’. I did meet desert men who could have helped me. But they passed me by. The desert locks men’s lips. Let every man save his own life—find his own soul. That’s the unwritten law of the wastelands of the world. I’ve broken it for you because I want to do by you as I’d have liked to be done by. An’ because I see somethin’ in you.”
Dismukes paused here to draw a long breath. In the flickering firelight he seemed a squatting giant immovable by physical force, and of a will unquenchable while life lasted.
“Men crawl over the desert like ants whose nests have been destroyed an’ who have become separated from one another,” went on Dismukes. “They all know the lure of the desert. Each man has his own idea of why the desert claims him. Mine was gold—is gold—so that some day I can travel over the world, rich an’ free, an’ see life. Another man’s will be the need to hide—or the longin’ to forget—or the call of adventure—or hate of the world—or love of a woman. Another class is that of bad men. Robbers, murderers. They are many. There are also many men, an’ a few women, who just drift or wander or get lost in the desert. An’ out of all these, if they stay in the desert, but few survive. They die or they are killed. The Great American Desert is a vast place an’ it is covered by unmarked graves an’ bleached bones. I’ve seen so many—so many.”
Dismukes paused again while his broad breast heaved with a sigh.
“I was talkin’ about what men think the desert means to them. In my case I say gold, an’ I say that as the other man will claim he loves the silence or the color or the loneliness. But I’m wrong, an’ so is he. The great reason why the desert holds men lies deeper. I feel that. But I’ve never had the brains to solve it. I do know, however, that life on this wasteland is fierce an’ terrible. Plants, reptiles, beasts, birds, an’ men all have to fight for life far out of proportion to what’s necessary in fertile parts of the earth. You will learn that early, an’ if you are a watcher an’ a thinker you will understand it.
“The desert is no place for white men. An oasis is fit for Indians. They survive there. But they don’t thrive. I respect the Indians. It will be well for you to live awhile with Indians.... Now what I most want you to know is this.”
The speaker’s pause this time was impressive, and he raised one of his huge hands, like a monstrous claw, making a gesture at once eloquent and strong.
“When the desert claims men it makes most of them beasts. They sink to that fierce level in order to live. They are trained by the eternal strife that surrounds them. A man of evil nature survivin’ in the desert becomes more terrible than a beast. He is a vulture.... On the other hand, there are men whom the desert makes like it. Yes—fierce an’ elemental an’ terrible, like the heat an’ the storm an’ the avalanche, but greater in another sense—greater through that eternal strife to live—beyond any words of mine to tell. What such men have lived—the patience, the endurance, the toil—the fights with men an’ all that makes the desert—the wanderin’s an’ perils an’ tortures—the horrible loneliness that must be fought hardest, by mind as well as action—all these struggles are beyond ordinary comprehension an’ belief. But I know. I’ve met a few such men, an’ if it’s possible for the divinity of God to walk abroad on earth in the shape of mankind, it was invested in them. The reason must be that in the development by the desert, in case of these few men who did not retrograde, the spiritual kept pace with the physical. It means these men never forgot, never reverted to mere unthinking instinct, never let the hard, fierce, brutal action of survival on the desert kill their souls. Spirit was stronger than body. I’ve learned this of these men, though I never had the power to attain it. It takes brains. I was only fairly educated. An’ though I’ve studied all my years on the desert, an’ never gave up, I wasn’t big enough to climb as high as I can see. I tell you all this, Wansfell, because it may be your salvation. Never give up to the desert or to any of its minions! Never cease to fight! You must fight to live—an’ so make that fight equally for your mind an’ your soul! Thus you will repent for your crime, whatever that was. Remember—the secret is never to forget your hold on the past—your memories—an’ through thinkin’ of them to save your mind an’ apply it to all that faces you out there.”
Rising from his seat, Dismukes made a wide, sweeping gesture, symbolical of a limitless expanse. “An’ the gist of all this talk of mine—this hope of mine to do for you as I’d have been done by—is that if you fight an’ think together like a man meanin’ to repent of his sin—somewhere out there in the loneliness an’ silence you will find God!”
With that he abruptly left the camp fire to stride off into the darkness; and the sonorous roll of his last words seemed to linger on the quiet air.