As the banker passed on toward the big wagon the Irishman
drew close to the Seer and whispered hoarsely:
“Now fwhat the hell kind av a man is that?
’Tis the truth, Sorr, that whin he looked at
me out av that grave-yard face I could bare kape from
crossin’ mesilf!”
Jefferson Worth’s offering.
When day broke over the topmost ridges of No Man’s
Mountains, Jefferson Worth’s outfit was ready
to move. The driver of the lighter rig with its
four broncos set out for San Felipe. On the front
seat of the big wagon Texas Joe picked up his reins,
sorted them carefully, and glanced over his shoulder
at his employer. “All set?”
“Go ahead.”
“You, Buck! Molly!” The lead mules
straightened their traces. “Jack!
Pete!” As the brake was released with a clash
and rattle of iron rods, the wheelers threw their
weight into their collars and the wagon moved ahead.
Grim, tireless, world-old sentinels, No Man’s
Mountains stood guard between the fertile land on
their seaward side and the desolate forgotten wastes
of the East. They said to the country of green
life, of progress and growth and civilization, that
marched to their line on the West, “Halt!”
and it stopped. To the land of lean want, of
gray death, of gaunt hunger, and torturing thirst,
that crept to their feet on the other side, “Stop!”
and it came no farther. With no land to till,
no mineral to dig, their very poverty was their protection.
With an air of grim finality, they declared strongly
that as they had always been they would always remain;
and, at the beginning of my story, save for that one,
slender, man-made trail, their hoary boast had remained
unchallenged.
Steadily, but with frequent rests on the grades, Jefferson
Worth’s outfit climbed toward the summit and
a little before noon gained the Pass. The loud,
rattling rumble of the wagon as the tires bumped and
ground over the stony, rock-floored way, with the sharp
ring and clatter of the iron-shod hoofs of the team,
echoed, echoed, and echoed again. Loudly, wildly,
the rude sounds assaulted the stillness until the
quiet seemed hopelessly shattered by the din.
Softly, tamely, the sounds drifted away in the clear
distance; through groves of live oak, thickets of
greasewood, juniper, manzanita and sage; into canyon
and wash; from bluff and ledge; along slope and spur
and shoulder; over ridge and saddle and peak; fainting,
dying—the impotent sounds of man’s
passing sank into the stillness and were lost.
When the team halted for a brief rest it was in a
moment as if the silence had never been broken.
Grim, awful, the hills gave no signs of man’s
presence, gave that creeping bit of life no heed.
At Mountain Spring—a lonely little pool
on the desert side of the huge wall—they
stopped for dinner. When the meal was over, Texas
Joe, with the assistance of Pat, filled the water barrels,
while the boy busied himself with the canteen and
the Seer and Jefferson Worth looked on.
