CHAPTER IX

DAM IN THE DESERT

Just above the forks of the Cascada lay a deep pool where rainbow trout hovered, darting from the shade to flash tantalizingly across the sunlit shallows. Sometimes they leaped through the rapids where the tumbling Cascada foamed into the Amarillo. Then anglers bit their nails and swore.

For no one could say, “I caught this fellow up in the Cascada, just by the forks.”

Mr. Perry had thought that was nonsense. Every day for three weeks he whipped the stream ardently, but still had nothing to show for it. He made a strike that dragged him into the rushing fork flat on his face. With his bones aching from the unaccustomed chill he tramped all the way down to his camp, where with chattering teeth he recounted the tussle. Proudly he displayed the hookless line, snapped just above the leader.

“Who says they won’t bite up there? Some fish, boys! Did he pull? And how!”

But the next day Hal Benty found the hook, the fly, and the leader, caught in the willow brush on the far side of the rapids.

“He ought to _know_ Dawn don’t allow nobody to actually fish anythin’ out o’ here.” Young Benty passed sentence and appropriated the fly. This was one of the streams that the forest ranger had stocked with fish from the Government hatcheries that spring.

Hal closed his fly-book hastily. Here was Jack Perry, Junior, coming across the ford right now. Jack pulled up his pony beside Hal just as Hal made ready to whip the branch upstream to the Amarillo.

“Howdy? How’re yuh?” he answered the other boy’s greeting. “Not much luck yet. Only been out an hour. Just thought I’d take a little time off, after fighting fire the last month and herding dudes all summer. How’re yuh feelin’ now?” Jack Perry was a real likable kid. Hal himself was only seventeen, with the mind of a boy of eleven, but he looked twenty-five. People born and reared in that altitude were apt to look older than they really were.

“Oh, I’m all right now,” Jack replied. “I was kind of knocked out for a couple of days after the ducking I got. Swallowed a lot and had a sort of chill.”

“It was sure lucky Dawn happened to see you,” young Benty reminded him.

Jack flushed. “I’ll say! I’m going up there now to thank her again. Haven’t been able to ride up since that night. The doctor made me stay in bed two days.”

“You’re too late. She’s not there,” Hal called over his shoulder, grinning. “Her and her father went to town this morning. Wonder you didn’t see ’em pass. My brother drove ’em down in the car to the train.” Hal went on up the stream.

Jack stood still in the water, his horse content to cool his feet. She’d gone to town. What must they think of him? Not one of the Perry family had been up there since the night of the fire. His father had been over at the store the following morning and telephoned the O’Neill cabin, but neither Dawn nor Damon O’Neill had been at home. Well, his dad had sent a box of chocolates up by a little Mexican boy. _That_ was something.

No one ever learned of the mishap with which the small Mexican had met, losing his box of chocolates in the Cascada. The sodden package recovered with unusual agility and concern, the lad had retired into the bushes, to emerge a half hour later with an expression of wan satisfaction.

Jack turned his horse’s head about. Might as well go back home. His uncomfortable feeling persisted. He’d ride up first thing they got back. He certainly did want to see Dawn. Come to think of it, she really had saved his life. Gee! He’d never forget the sensation when he found there was no bottom under his feet. He had backed right out into the lake, it shelved off so suddenly. And the cold—that choking blanket of water! He didn’t remember much of anything more till he got home.

Jack shook off the dark memory. Here, now, the sunshine was warm and friendly. He rode on down the canyon road, stopping in at the general store, also the post office, where fish stories were swapped and great trout catches pictured and described on the walls. He enjoyed the notoriety of having had so close a call the night of the fire. He had hoped to see that Government chap, Garen Shepherd, again. A nice fellow, college chap too. Funny he was content with this hard-labor, out-of-door thing.

But at the store Jack heard talk only of the fire and similar fires. Old man Benty was full of fact and fictions, which he dispensed as he weighed sugar and passed out cigarettes. What had started it? The electrical storm a week ago. It had lit twenty-three fires in different spots on the mountain range.

Nobody could blame Hal for goin’ to sleep over on the northeast slope, for he’d fought fires for forty-eight hours with practically no sleep at all; and he’d been working as patrol man and “smoke-chaser” for the forest service all summer. There was a fire still burning over beyond the Coronado Peaks that nobody couldn’t get at. Burned for weeks. Surface fire, just above timber line.

“O’Neill said this morning how they’ve already put out six hundred fires in the state this year. But that’s higher than usual, owin’ to drouth. Remember the great Minnesota fire?” Old Man Benty had nearly as many facts and figures as Hinray. “It lasted eleven hours and cost fifteen million dollars. It burned four thousand homes, five thousand barns, and cost five hundred lives. Yes, sir! That’s what a fire _kin_ do if let loose. This one could ’a’ swep’ right on to Albukirk, I reckon. And those boys that was standin’ watch for Hal thought the sparks in the moss didn’t matter!”

Jack found that Garen Shepherd had gone back too. He had driven down to the station with Dawn and her father. Jack felt a pang akin to jealousy. He had been mildly infatuated with Dawn all summer and had played about with her because he had to have a companion. But now he felt all at once that this was different. As he rode back to the cabin camp he was moved to more gratitude than he had ever felt.

Faintly it dawned on him that he might be somehow remiss. Dawn might think him a slacker not to have joined the men and boys who fought the fire. He and his father’s friends had gone to look at the great spectacle as though it had been one of the entertainments provided by the Forest Service and were to be enjoyed as part of the summer’s vacation. He had a vague feeling that perhaps it would have served him right to drown. Yes, that was so, he concluded wretchedly, as he came in sight of home.

He owed Dawn his life. He had said that before. They had all said it, jovially; but now he realized it. All that was decent in the boy was strongest at that moment. He could hardly wait for her to come back. As he trotted up the slope to the lodge he reflected that meanwhile he’d have to be nice to Norine Masters. Her father was one of his dad’s partners. He succeeded so well in being agreeable to Norine that by afternoon he had already been teased into secret shame for the emotion he had felt for the mountain girl that morning.

Dawn had not wanted to leave the mountain. Her father had been called down to relieve the district forester’s office, and it was decided that she might as well go with him now. Garen decided that he would cut his vacation short and take a few days at another time. He would ride down with them. They reached the city that evening, and Garen went on to the dam the next morning.

On the third day Dawn sat with her father in the district forester’s office. The Supervisor talked with his eyes gazing through the windows off to the mountains. “In the face of your record, O’Neill, and of Miss Dawn’s unsalaried services, the very mention of these protests seems unfair. But, you understand, I was obliged to look into them. Although I may say I very much disliked having to pay you a visit accompanied by any member of the—ah—other branch of the service, I thought it would be better than to discuss the matter coldly by letter.

“However, I am happy to state that the subject is closed.” He brought his gaze back to Dawn, smiling, and laid a letter in her lap. She read it with a radiant smile and handed it over to Damon. With grave dignity the ranger read the statement of the Supervisor. Then he thrust out his hand. “Thank you, sir,” he said huskily. Damon had not realized how distressed he had been by this charge against Dawn. It had filled the whole horizon and at night crowded his fancies with all sorts of horrid possibilities.

Now they would always be together on their mountain, as they always had been. The Supervisor wanted Ranger O’Neill to stay in the office for a week, which would free him to get into the field. He wanted to ride over the northern forests with his assistant. Damon was glad to serve and pleased with the confidence and honor shown in entrusting some special work to his care.

Dawn stayed too, of course, putting in a more or less lonely week. The evenings were delightful, however. She and Damon, hanging on each other’s arms like sweethearts, saw the sights and ate ice-cream and more ice-cream. But by day it was dull. Dawn was not resourceful in the unaccustomed life of even the quaint old Spanish town. She was too timid to call on any of the people who had visited them in the mountains, eaten at their table, taken refuge before their fire.

She missed Garen and wished that he had not gone. She thought of Jack and looked forward to getting back up on the mountain, when she would see him again. They’d had good times riding over the mountains together. It had never occurred to Dawn that any demonstration should be made because of her dragging Jack out of the lake. She herself felt no injury at not having seen any of the Perry family after the fire, as she knew that Jack was sick abed.

Now she wandered about the streets, unable to sit still, and listened to people talking. “Damon,” she said, “everywhere down here I see cattlemen standing talking. And in the hotel lobby all I hear is hard times. I thought we were getting through the summer fine, even if it is hotter than usual.”

“On the mountain, yes,” he replied; “but we’ve been so busy with fires and the work up there that we forget sometimes what’s going on down here. Things look rather bad, I guess. I’m mighty glad we aren’t dependent on the range for a livin’. And I’m glad too that we’ve money in the bank.”

“Money in the bank,” Dawn echoed. “I’ll need a lot when I go to school this winter, won’t I, Dad?”

Money had little actual meaning for them in the present, but its existence in the safest bank in the state gave Damon a great and abiding sense of protection. Protection for Dawn; there was the money, a bird in the hand, for after all, a mine—a mine—well—he would grin to himself a trifle sheepishly.

It seemed ages before the week came to an end. They were to go back to the mountains Sunday morning. But on Friday Damon was called down to the state office in the big city of the railroad, to go over some reports. They sat in the train, choking with the dry powdery dust that blew in from the desert-dry mesas, themselves parched with the unaccustomed heat and dryness. Damon bought the morning paper.

On the front page he read that the Southern State Cattleman’s Bank had closed its doors and was refusing payment. That was disquieting. Still, it was a small bank, entirely state capital, owned largely by big stockmen in a cattle county. The big state and Federal loan banks would probably not feel the depression. He saw among the “personals” that Mr. John Perry and family had come down from the mountains to be in town for a while. Mr. Perry had been called back on business. On another page there was a statement by Mr. Perry that there was no likelihood of any financial depression in the northern part of the state.

Down in the city, however, Damon heard talk, hints, forebodings of hard times to be weathered that fall. There had not been a drop of rain all summer. People spoke hopefully of the new dam.

The heat of the day was incredible. It was impossible to stay out on the streets. Damon decided that it would be nice for Dawn to go up to the Perry’s home for the afternoon. The courts and deep verandas of the hotel were fairly cool, but there was no face she knew. The downtown streets were like a furnace. Dawn shrank from the treeless glare, but she walked with her father up the street to the offices where he would have to spend the afternoon. Damon gave her the address of the Perry house and showed her where to wait for a trolley.

But she walked, her sun-brown arms swinging bare in the sleeveless dress bought the day after she came down from the Cascada. The wide streets were now canopied by great cottonwoods, that noble tree of the lowlands, which Dawn regarded with pleasure and reverence. How well they did themselves in this dry air! Their shade was an oasis in the desert. Her feet seemed small and light in their new sandals. Jack would be glad to see her.

In this alien world at the mountain’s foot she turned to Jack as to an old friend. She was lonely, awkward, ill at ease. But with a friend she would once more feel herself. It seemed strange to walk on a level. All the houses seemed to be leaning over her. Her legs all but ached from having no hill to climb. Where was the house anyway? She came on the place at last, a gaudy stucco meant to be pure Spanish, with a red-tiled roof. It looked very grand to Dawn. She went up the steps timidly. No one was on the wide, screened veranda, dazzling with yellow wicker and chintz. The screen door was locked; so she couldn’t reach the bell to the house door. She rattled the screen, knocked, and after a while a Mexican maid came.

“What you want?” inquired the girl indolently.

“Mr. Jack Perry. Is he at home?” Dawn pressed her face to the shiny copper screen, through which she could scarcely see.

No, he was out. The maid turned as if to close the front door behind her. “But Mrs. Perry?” Dawn spoke quickly. “Or Mr. Perry?” Weren’t they at home, and when was Jack coming back?

“Mrs. Perry she is on the bed, rest. Can not be disturbed by _nada, nadie_. Mr. Perry he make siesta too,” droned the Mexican girl.

Dawn stood forlornly on the steps in the hot sun. She could not see through the close wire screening whether the girl had closed the front door or not. The cool, darkened porch, the welcome she had expected, seemed denied her. She waited, chin up, feeling rebuffed. There came quick steps, the screen door was pulled open, and a man hurried out. It was Mr. Perry himself. He started down the steps to the car waiting at the curb but turned as he saw the girl and hesitated.

Dawn spoke.

“Oh, yes, yes. Miss O’Neill, the ranger’s daughter. Of course, of course.” He was hurried, seeming to remember her with an effort. “Ah, yes. Down in the city, eh? Just walk in, won’t you? Make yourself at home.” As though vaguely aware that there was something that he might do in the way of hospitality, he waved his hand toward the porch. “Go right in, go right in!” Muttering something about having to get back to the bank, he hurried on out to his car.

Dawn stepped inside, seating herself on one of the wide, flowered chairs. It was refuge for the moment from the heat and from depression. The Mexican girl stood in the doorway. When Mrs. Perry woke, Dawn told her, please say that the girl she had met in the mountains was downstairs. Mr. Perry had told her to come in and wait.

She sat silently for a long time. The afternoon waxed and waned with breathless heat. How good a drink from a bubbling spring would taste! Her eyes closed. Dawn could see the drinking-hole on the Cascada just below their cabin. The Mexican girl came out again after a while. “Mrs. Perry waked up but say she can not come down. She have bad headache. Too bad.” The girl shrugged with resignation.

“I think I’ll be going.” Dawn rose with dignity, picking up the twisted handkerchief that served as purse. A car was coming down the street and she paused irresolutely. It slowed, stopped suddenly before the door with a grinding of brakes, and Jack himself jumped out, turning to help a slender girl, a slip of a girl in a wide floppy hat under which peeped corn-colored curls. Her little blue dress, sleeveless too, was no bigger than a child’s. Two boys followed, and they came up the walk, all chattering at once.

Dawn wavered in panic. Her instant thought was flight. But they were at the steps. She plunged through the front door into the house, down the hall ahead, through a dark doorway. Before her the kitchen opened, a door into the back yard. She hurried by the Mexican maid, sitting wide-eyed at her pan of peas, and out. Voices behind her, Jack’s voice. Well, let him follow. But she wouldn’t stay.

It was all right, of course, but she just wanted to get away. She’d been there long enough anyway. She turned and ran, down a tiny lane, behind an old adobe wall, into a quaint crooked street of old Mexican houses, where hollyhocks and zinnias throve in the sun like lizards. Here all was peaceful and familiar.

It was six o’clock before she found her way back to the hotel. Damon was already waiting on the veranda. She had walked off her hurt and was able to say yes when Damon asked if she had had a good time. They went into dinner at once, an experience which they always found delightful. As they awaited the inevitable ice-cream a familiar figure walked into the dining-room. It was Garen Shepherd. He looked about, saw them, and came straight over to their table.

Dawn’s eyes grew bluer, her color deepened; she felt a sense of happiness and gratitude. Here was a friend. Where had he come from? Garen had seen in the paper that they were still in Santa Fe and was on his way up there himself when he’d noticed their names on the register of this hotel. He sat down with them and they lingered through the meal. Garen seemed to know a good deal more about the financial condition of the state than Damon did.

The paper that evening carried on the front page the news that two more banks in the southern part of the state had failed. It was the opinion, however, that the northern part of the state would pull out of the admitted depression. A statement was quoted from Mr. John Perry to the effect that the depression would be short-lived and that another year would show a great development and expansion, a chance for investment.

“No investment for me. I’ll keep mine in the bank,” said Damon.

As the three sat in the cool patio after dinner Garen received a telegram. He read it regretfully and handed it to Dawn. Just when he was having such a nice time! He must get back to the dam in the morning. Then Garen had a brilliant idea. Chief Engineer Stearn, of the dam, and his wife were in town and were leaving that night. Early in the morning they would reach the station from which one motored out to the dam. He would return with them. Wouldn’t Dawn like to go and make that trip to the dam? He would show her over the whole thing. They might not get such another opportunity.

Damon looked at Dawn questioningly. Would she like it? She would. She had always wanted to see the dam. Garen seemed so eager to have her go. He would speak to his chief and Mrs. Stearn at once and arrange matters. And so for the first time since she could remember Dawn slept that night in a sleeping car, whirling over the desert in a sun-heated steel case hot to the touch. She lay for a long time staring into the darkness, listening to the song of the wheels and the roar of the engine. When the cool air of early dawn rushed over the desert she fell asleep; two hours later she woke as refreshed as though she had slept ten hours.

Powerful motor cars met them. Dawn sat in a luxurious seat with Garen and the charming motherly woman who was the chief engineer’s wife. They whirled over a desert delicately opalescent in the early light. Suddenly, without warning, the great lake behind the dam lifted into view—a sheet of the sky laid down like a vast mirage.

“It’s the nearest to the ocean I’ve ever been,” Dawn said. This was where the water from her mountains came! Her heart ached for the lofty wooded summits so far away. Water, water, in a fantastic desert of carven mesas, painted spires, incredible flats, vast crouching foothills like creation in the making. Now they were whirling down a canyon, a tree-bordered gorge below the great man-built lake that lay behind the dam.

In a house whose cool elegance reflected its silver-haired mistress, they ate an exquisite breakfast—fruit, iced coffee with real cream, thin, delicate bacon, and rolls that were a confection to the healthy palate accustomed to coarse whole wheat. The distinguished engineer and his wife showed Garen Shepherd flattering attention and paid his word marked deference. They treated him as though he were an important person.

Mrs. Stearn drew out the girl charmingly. “You were born in Washington, my dear? And so was I.” Think of it, there they were in a land where the arctic regions and the tropics were both to be found. “We’re in the desert, and you in the Alps,” said Mrs. Stearn.

Dawn was to make the trip over the dam before ten o’clock, for the sun would be too hot after that. They were at an altitude several thousand feet below that to which she was accustomed, yet Dawn climbed like a mountain goat up the great works that looked like an Egyptian temple. At last she stood on the broad summit, to look at lake and sky of such intense blue that the eyes ached from gazing.

“It’s full of fish,” said Garen, who stood beside her. “The best black bass fishing in the world. I’ll let you fish for my fish almost any time, and that was more than you would let me do in your river!”

Dawn laughed, and with the laugh vanished the hidden pain that had hung like lead within her ever since Government officials had stepped into the morning sunlight of their cabin door, all the heavy-heartedness that the Perry home had so shaken up yesterday. There was no room for hurt any more. The world was a sparkling place of kindness.

“All this water is from your mountains and from the foothills,” Garen was saying. “Look, Dawn, already the dam has saved the spring downpour from these poor denuded dunes. It will supply irrigation water to thousands of farms and grow melons sweet as honey, peaches big as grapefruit, and when the old Rio Grande rises and comes rolling down….”

“It will catch all the silt,” Dawn interrupted teasingly.

“With rare observation the young lady has put her finger straight on the sore spot of all engineers,” said Mr. Stearn, standing beside her. “Far too much of the desert already lies at the bottom of this lake. It will have to be dredged some day, Shepherd. But mind your mountain up above, young lady—” he shook a jovial finger at her—“for if I find any black or red earth at the bottom I’ll know you haven’t been tending your business.”

“I’ll not neglect it for anything,” Dawn replied. “I’ll go back right now and watch my shrubs and trees grow themselves. I’ll leave you valley folks to grow grapes as big as a bushel basket and corn eighteen feet high!”

During the heat of the day Dawn and Mrs. Stearn stayed indoors, sipping iced drinks. Major Stearn, as Dawn learned that the engineer-in-chief was called, and Garen, joined them at sunset. After dark they ate dinner on a veranda under the stars. A cool air breathed over the desert that had scorched at noon. Dawn’s train left at midnight. Her father would meet her at the station in the morning.