Brothers -- Fiction; Deserts -- Fiction; Southwest, New -- Fiction; Western stories
When he had refreshed himself with food and drink he settled himself
into a comfortable position to rest and sleep a little while. He had
plucked at the roots of love, but not yet had he torn it from his
heart. Guerd, his brother! The old boyhood days flashed up. Adam
found the pang deep in his heart and ineradicable. The old beautiful
bond, the something warm and intimate between him and Guerd, was gone
forever. For its loss there could be no recompense. He knew every hour
would sever him the farther from this brother who had proved false.
Adam hid his face in the dry grass, and there in the loneliness of that
desert he began to see into the gulf of his soul.
“I can fight--I can forget!” he muttered. Then he set his mind to the
problem of his immediate future. Where would he go? There were two
points below on the river--Picacho, a mining camp, and Yuma, a frontier
town--about both of which he had heard strange, exciting tales. And
at that moment Adam felt a reckless eagerness for adventure, and a
sadness for the retreating of his old dream of successful and useful
life. At length he fell asleep.
When he awoke he felt hot and wet with sweat. A luminous gold light
shone through the willows and there was vivid color in the west. He had
slept hours. When he moved to sit up he heard rustlings in the willows.
These unseen creatures roused interest and caution in Adam. In his
travels across Arizona he had passed through wild places and incidents.
And remembering tales of bad Indians, bad Mexicans, bad white men, and
the fierce beasts and reptiles of the desert, Adam fortified himself to
encounters that must come.
When he stepped out of the shady covert it was to see river and valley
as if encompassed by an immense loneliness, different somehow for the
few hours of his thought and slumber. The river seemed redder and the
mountains veiled in ruby haze. Earth and sky were bathed in the hue of
sunset light.
He descended to the river. Shoving the boat off, he applied himself to
the oars. His strong strokes, aided by the current, sent the boat along
swiftly, perhaps ten miles an hour. The rose faded out of the sky, the
clouds turned drab, the blue deepened, and a pale star shone. Twilight
failed. With the cooling of the air Adam lay back more powerfully
upon the oars. Night fell, and one by one, and then many by many, the
stars came out. This night ride began to be thrilling. There must have
been danger ahead. By night the river seemed vast, hurrying, shadowy,
and silent as the grave. Its silence wore upon Adam until it seemed
unnatural.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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