Top-Notch Magazine/Volume 66/Number 3/East of Sunrise/Chapter 10

OMETIMES a story of Seward of Sacatone which deals with a series of connected incidents will be broken into fragments, and each fragment will be told and retold as complete in itself and as having no bearing on other incidents that made it plausible or possible.

Perhaps this is not to be wondered at; for when a really remarkable figure, such as Seward, appears in a thinly settled, inhospitable country and plays daringly and successfully the rôle of a righter of wrongs, his deeds are sure to become a popular topic in camps or in the settlements. And when an unselfish desire for service prompts the deeds, and no reward for their accomplishment is ever accepted save that of an approving conscience, the protagonist inevitably achieves heroic stature. He is mute on the subject of his own performances, and the record must be received from those whom he has helped or from witnesses. Thus it is that fragments are made to stand by themselves as complete tales, with no hint of their relation to events preceding or following which would give to such fragments their true value.

Among the more ignorant and superstitious, Seward became a superman, infallible in judgment, certain as fate in all his activities, and proof against all the ills that flesh is heir to. This type of hero-worshipers scoffs at the story of Seward’s temporary blindness and asserts that he merely assumed such a condition in order to develop facts which were difficult of discovery in any other way.

There was an opposing camp of Seward’s admirers, a more intelligent and logical faction, which admitted the fact of his blindness although sorely puzzled to account for the affliction; both sides argue a pretty fair case from this woman whom he found in the trail during his night ride to Cerillos.

Nevertheless, it is a truth that Seward was sun-blind; and that alone makes of an unusual adventure a most extraordinary proof of his resourcefulness. Properly to appraise the La Joya incident, it must be considered in connection with the other fragments that have to do with Lola Sanger, Chombo, and Red Galloway.

The woman in the trail recognized him, cried out his name, and tried to get away. She had not taken a step, however, before she fell moaning to the ground.

“Then it is true,” said Seward, “and you are Paquita Gonzales, the La Joya of Forty-mile!”

There followed another silence; then, “Si,” came the answer, followed by the query, in a faint voice: “What is the matter, Señor Seward? Why do you grope like that with your hands?”

“Sun-blind, señorita. You know, it was coming on yesterday.”

There was a murmured exclamation. “I remember! Si, I remember!”

“It is all right,” Seward went on, “and we will forget yesterday. You want to return to Forty-mile? Well, I can take you as far as Cerillos, and no doubt you have friends there.”

“I have friends there,” the other answered eagerly, “just outside the town, on this trail. But how will you take me?”

“You can ride the horse, and I will walk. How far are we from Cerillos? Do you know?”

“No; I am not familiar with this cross trail.”

He helped her up, then lifted her bodily into the saddle; but he kept the reins in his own hands as he walked beside the horse.

“You remember what you told me at the spring by the hogback?” Seward asked as they plodded along.

“No; I forget; what happened seems more like a dream than anything else.”

“Perhaps,” said Seward, “I can refresh your memory. The bandidos, now; as I understand it, they were your friends and not your enemies. You were merely pretending.”

“I am sorry, señor. Yes; I was only pretending.”

“And when, after the sandstorm, Red Galloway came and took the burro away from us, you thought you could find the men you said were bandidos, and you went after them to get help for me.”

“I tried hard, señor, but the walk was more than I could bear. I turned my ankle while I was coming through the pass; but I so wanted to help you that I kept on until I gave out completely.”

“You were after the gold, you know, but you decided that you wouldn’t take it."

“No; I—I couldn’t take it.”

“You must remember the rattlesnake you killed by the spring.”

“Si; I recall killing the rattlesnake.”

“And you called those double eagles ‘phantom gold.'”

“Well, isn’t that money phantom gold? It has caused much trouble.”

“It caused Dirk Sanger a lot of trouble. He will go ‘over the road’ on account of it—and some other things he has done. A scoundrel if there ever was one!”

Seward’s hand was on the saddle cantle, and he felt a sudden tensing of the girl’s body in the saddle. The slow, grim smile that twitched at his lips was hidden by the darkness. The girl muttered something indistinctly, but made no other answer.

“What time do you think it is, señorita?” Seward inquired.

“It must be three or four in the morning, señor. It has been a long, hard night for me. There is no stirrup on the side where I have my injured foot. Could you not fix something to support it. Oh, it hurts, hurts!”

“Certainly, señorita! Pardon me for being so thoughtless. When a man is blind there are things he fails to realize.”

Seward released the lines and took the coil of pack rope, one end of which was binding the heavy bag to the saddle cantle. The moment he released the lines the girl caught them up; then she struck the horse.

The pack rope was uncoiled, and Seward twisted it about his hands. The sudden start of the horse flung him from his feet, but he clung to the rope. The drag of his body presently brought the horse to a halt.

“I’m sorry,” faltered the girl; “something must have startled the horse.”

“Yes,” agreed Seward; “something certainly startled him”

“You were not hurt?”

He laughed. “Hurt? You ask a desert man if he is hurt by a little tumble like that?”

Gropingly, he made a loop in the pack rope, adjusted the dangling foot in the loop, laid a firm hold on the reins and once more started the horse.

“I suppose,” he remarked casually, “that dealing faro must be a very fascinating pastime?”

“Si,” said the girl; “but keeping track of the hands always bothered me. I never can seem to get it straight whether three of a kind beat what is called a ‘full house,’ or a ‘straight,’ or some of the other combinations. I wouldn’t make a very good gambler, señor.”

“I should think not—dealing that kind of faro. Que dia es hoy, señorita?”

There was no answer to this, nothing but a strained silence broken only by the dull footfalls of the horse.

“Qué dice usted?” went on Seward.

The silence continued. “No estoy acostumbrado a que nadie juegue conmigo,” Seward remarked. “Do you understand that, señorita?”

“It has been a long time since I have talked Spanish,” said the girl, “and I know only a few words of it. At Forty-mile we talk English all the time.”

Seward’s lips again twisted into a grim smile. His little tests, which he had started with the questions about the rattlesnake and the phantom gold, were bearing fruit.

“You have seen Tumbling Stone Mountain, señorita?” he continued.

“I have heard of it, but I have never been near it,” was the answer.

“Now, in going through the gorge that brings one to Tumbling Stone Mountain from Quinlan”

“There is no gorge,” the girl cut in; “at least,” she added, hastily correcting herself, “I have heard that there is no gorge—nothing but flat country after you turn from the main Tres Alamos Trail.”

“You are correct about that; quite correct.”

Seward had discovered all that he wanted to know. For an hour or more he plodded along in silence beside the horse.

It was the girl who roused herself at last to announce: “Dawn is breaking, señor.”

“Gracias,” said Seward; “I am sorry I cannot see the dawn, for watching the sun rise and set is one of my greatest diversions out in the desert. There is nothing more beautiful in nature, señorita. We must be drawing close to the end of our journey. But, tell me: Was Dirk Sanger ever at Forty-mile?”

“Why do you mention Dirk Sanger?” demanded the girl almost fiercely.

“Because he seems to be very much in my mind, just now. He has a sister, Lola. Did you ever meet Lola Sanger?”

“I never did.”

“There is a very remarkable girl, if I am any judge. She helped her brother in some of his lawless escapades, but never of her own choice, I am convinced. Her brother forced her to help him.”

“Why are you so sure of that?”

“By observation. Being a prospector trains one to be a close observer, señorita. When Dirk Sanger was captured the first time he was attempting to hold up a motorist by Tumbling Stone Mountain. His sister was with him at the time. The attempt failed, and the motorist brought Sanger and his sister into Tres Alamos and turned them over to the sheriff. It just happened, señorita. that I was the motorist.”

The girl twisted in her saddle, and he heard her uneasy movements.

“As we neared Tres Alamos,” Seward proceeded, “I was so deeply impressed with the character of Miss Sanger that I offered her her freedom. And she would not accept it. She was very devoted to her brother and declared that she would share his troubles and go through with them to the bitter end. I was sorry. You see, I cannot make war on women. I hated to think that I would be the cause of sending Lola Sanger to the penitentiary. Well, as it chanced, I did not have that to think of, after all. The two Sangers escaped from the jail; they had friends on the outside who helped them, of course. Miss Sanger, it was supposed, left this part of the country and went East. Her brother remained in the deserts, continued his lawlessness, and was captured at the old Esmeralda Mine. I had something to do with that, too. I am wondering”

“I am not interested, señor,” broke in the girl shortly. “Anyhow, there is Los Cerillos in the distance, and we are now at the place where I must leave you. The house of my friends is close to the trail at this point.”

“I will take you to the house,” Seward offered.

“No; I prefer to go there alone. I can attract their attention, and they will come and give me any help I may need.”

Seward helped her to dismount from the horse and then climbed into the empty saddle.

“All right, Miss Sanger,” he said. “How you came to be where I found you and in the plight in which I found you, I do not know, but I am giving you the same chance which I offered you, weeks ago—the chance to keep your freedom and get out of this country. I hope you feel differently about the matter now. Adios!”

And Lola Sanger, in blank amazement, watched him as he rode onward toward Los Cerillos.