lahoma(拉霍马)-第4节
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When the last of the pursuers found further effort useless； he checked
his horse。 Willock now sat erect on the broncho's bare back； lightly
clasping the halter。 Looking behind； he saw seven horsemen in varying
degrees of remoteness； motionless； doubtless fixing their wolfish eyes on
his fleeing form。 As long as he could distinguish these specks against the
sky； they remained stationary。 To his excited imagination they represented
a living wall drawn up between him and the abode of men。 Should he ever
venture back to that world； he fancied those seven avengers would be
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waiting to receive him with taunts and drawn weapons。
And his conscience told him that the taunts would be merited； for he
had turned traitor； he had failed in the only virtue on which his fellow
criminals prided themselves。 Yes； he was a traitor； and by the only justice
he acknowledged； he deserved to die。 But the child who had lain so
trustingly upon his wild bosom； who had clung to him as to a fathershe
was safe！ An unwonted smile crept under the bristling beard of the fugitive；
as he urged the pony forward in unrelaxing speed。 Should he seek refuge
among civilized communities； his crimes would hang over his headif not
discovered； the fear of discovery would be his； day and night。 To venture
into his old haunts in No…Man's Land would be to expose his back to the
assassin's knife； or his breast to ambushed murderers。 He dared not seek
asylum among the Indians； for while bands of white men were safe
enough in the Territory； single white men were at the mercy of the
moment's caprice and certainly； if found astride that Indian pony which
the agent had ordered restored to its owner； his life would not be worth a
thought。
These were desperate reflections； and the future seemed framed in
solitude； yet Brick Willock rode on with that odd smile about the grim lips。
The smile was unlike himbut； the whole affair was such an experience as
had never entered his most daring fancy。 Never before in his life had he
held a child in his arms； still less had he felt the sweet embrace of peaceful
slumber。 To another man it might have meant nothing； but to this great
rough fellow； the very sight of whom had often struck terror to the heart；
that experience seemed worth all the privations he foresaw。
The sun had risen when the pony； after a few tottering steps； suddenly
sank to earth。 Willock unfastened the halter from its neck； tied it with the
lariat about his waist； and without pause； set out afoot。 If the pony died
from the terrible strain of that unremitting flight； doubtless the roving
Indians of the plains would find it and try to follow his trail； if it survived
he would be safer if not found near it。 In either case； swift flight was still
imperative； and the shifting sand； beaten out of shape by the constant wind；
promised not to retain his footprints。
Though stiff from long riding； the change of motion soon brought
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renewed vigor。 Willock had grown thirsty； and as the sun rose higher and
beat down on him from an unclouded sky； his eyes searched the plains
eagerly for some shelter that promised water。 He did not look in vain。
Against the horizon rose the low blue shapes of the Wichita Mountains；
looking at first like flat sheets of cardboard； cut out by a careless hand and
set upright in the sand。
As he toiled toward this refuge； not a living form appeared to dispute
his sovereignty of the desert world。 His feet sank deep in the sand； then
trod lightly over vast stretches of short sun…burned mesquit； then again
traversed hot shifting reaches of naked sand。 The mountains seemed to
recede as he advanced； and at times stifling dust and relentless heat
threatened to overpower him。 With dogged determination he told himself
that he might be forced to drop from utter exhaustion； but it would not be
yetnot yetone more mile； or； at least； another half…mile。 So he advanced；
growing weaker； breathing with more difficulty； but still muttering； 〃Not
yetnot just yet！〃
The mountains had begun to spread apart。 There were long ranges and
short。 Here and there； a form that had seemed an integral part of some
range； defined itself as distinct from all others； lying like an island of rock
in a sea of unbroken desert。 Willock was approaching the Wichita
Mountains from their southwestern extremity。 As far as he could see in
one direction； the grotesque forms stretched in isolated chains or single
groups； but in the other； the end was reached； and beyond lay the unbroken
waste of the Panhandle。
Swaying on his great legs as with the weakness of an infant； he was
now very near the end of the system。 A wall of granite； sparsely dotted
with green； rose above him to a height of about three hundred and fifty
feet。 The length of this range was perhaps six miles； its thickness a mile。
Concealed among these ridges； he might be safe； but it was no longer
possible for him to stand erect； to climb the difficult ledges would be
impossible。
He sank to the ground； his eyes red and dimmed。 For some time he
remained there inert； staring； his brain refusing to work。 If yonder stood a
white object； between him and the mountain； a curious white something
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with wheels； might it not be a covered wagon？ No； it was a mirage。 But
was it possible for a mirage to deceive him into the fancy that a wagon
stood only a few hundred feet away？ Perhaps it was really a wagon。 He
stared stupidly； not moving。 There were no dream…horses to this ghost…
wagon。 There was no sign of life。 If captured by the Indians； it would not
have been left intact。 But how came a wagon into this barren world？
He stared up at the sun as if to assure himself that he was awake； then
laughed hoarsely； foolishly。 The wagon did not melt away。 He could crawl
that far； though in stretching forth his arm he might grasp but empty air。
He began to crawl forward； but the wagon did not move。 As it grew
plainer in all its details； a new strength came to him。 He strove to rise； and
after several efforts； succeeded。 He staggered forward till his hands
grasped one of the wheels。 The contact cleared his brain as by a magic
touch。 It was no dream。
Supporting himself by the sideboard； he drew himself around to the
front； the only opening of the canvas room。 He looked within。 A first look
told him that the wagon was fitted up for a long journey； and that its
contents had not been disturbed by bandits or Indians。 The second look
distinguished two objects that excluded from attention all others。 Upon a
mattress at the rear of the wagon lay a woman； her face covered by a cloth；
and near the front seat stood a keg of water。 It was impossible to note the
rigid form of the woman and the position of the arms and hands without
perceiving that she was dead。
The man recognized this truth but it made only a dim impression； that
keg of water meant lifeand life was a thousandfold more to him than
death。 He drew himself upon the seat； snatched at the tin cup beside the
keg； and drew out the cloth…covered corn…cob that stopped the flow。
Having slaked his thirst； there was mingled with his sense of ineffable
content； an overwhelming desire for sleep。 He dropped on the second
mattress； on which bedclothes were carelessly strewn； his head found the
empty pillow that lay indented as it had been left by some vanished
sleeper。 As his eyelids closed； he fell sound asleep。 But for the rising and
falling of his powerful breast； he was as motionless as the body of the
woman。
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