grizzled, tough man, seasoned by time and trouble. Now he had come again to the spring, and this time he brought a grown daughter with him.
Drawing rein, he fiddled with building a cigarette while his eyes glanced toward the notch where the shoulder of Table Top was visible. His eyes dropped to the ground. Bunch grass grew in the trail, and some sage…although trail, as such, there had never been.
The great mass of the Sand Tanks lay before them, where there was little brush and less grass. He started his horse without speaking to Lennie and walked it toward a vivid streak of quartz that slashed across the face of a rock. At the rock he turned again and was within the box canyon.
The trail that led upward along its edge was faint, but Dave Spanyer started up, followed by Lennie. Higher and higher through a wilderness of rock and cactus they mounted. Suddenly, when almost at the top, the trail dipped sharply down and around the rocks, and Lennie was riding into the hanging valley behind her father.
The edge broke off sharply, and before them was a view of an enormous expanse of country—desert mountains and valleys—streaked with the white of dry washes. They were two thousand feet above the surrounding country here, and just below the rim.
“There’s a spring behind that tree,” Spanyer said.
“Pa…it’s lovely. It really is!”
“You get down and make some coffee. I’ll fetch some wood.”
But her words had caught at his attention, and he looked around him. The grass was green, and the cedars and piñons offered their deeper green and the darkness of their shade, making shadow patterns on the rocks.
“Never thought of it before, Lennie. I reckon this here is really beautiful.”
He walked over to where a sharply tilted strata of rock had broken off, forming a sort of alcove. Here the words scratched under the overhang were easily read, even after fifteen years.
HERE LIES
BURT CARNAVON
DEAD BY THE GUN
1866
“Lived by it, died by it,” Spanyer muttered. “He was a good man…mighty good.”
“Who was?”
Spanyer turned irritably. It always angered him when somebody got close to him without his knowing. Once nobody could have done it, not a rattler, a coyote, or an Apache. His irritation faded when he looked at his daughter. She had a mouth like her mother, the sort of mouth a man always looked at twice.
Damn it, she wasn’t a kid any more! She was filling out fast, and it worried him. This was no way to raise a girl. A boy now, or a colt…with them he knew what he was doing, but Lennie was constantly surprising him with her womanly attitudes and ways.
“Feller buried here.”
“Did you know him, Pa?”
“I buried him.”
He picked up some fallen branches and broke off some dead roots from a gnarled stump.
“Pa…will we have other folks around us where we’re going?”
“I reckon.” He glanced at her. The wistful note in her voice worried him. “It’s been lonely for you, ain’t it, Lennie? You’d set store by neighbors now, wouldn’t you?”
It wasn’t right for a man to keep his daughter in a shack in a cow town. She needed to meet folks, to learn things from other women. She needed to meet some men, some decent men, and he was a mighty poor guide to such a trail.
Burt now, he had been a decent man. God knows he had been no angel, but decent around women, even if quick with a gun. Up to a point he’d been quick…trouble was, a man could never be sure when he wouldn’t meet somebody who was quicker. Or when his gun wouldn’t misfire.
A long time later, when she was huddled into her blankets, he bent over and pulled a couple of sticks back from the fire. It was dying down and he did not want it to burn any longer.
When he lay down he put his gun belt close at hand, with the butt where he could lay a hand on it. He stared up at the stars through the cedar branches, and then his eyes closed.…
His eyes flared wide…only a few coals remained of the fire. Startled to
Drawing rein, he fiddled with building a cigarette while his eyes glanced toward the notch where the shoulder of Table Top was visible. His eyes dropped to the ground. Bunch grass grew in the trail, and some sage…although trail, as such, there had never been.
The great mass of the Sand Tanks lay before them, where there was little brush and less grass. He started his horse without speaking to Lennie and walked it toward a vivid streak of quartz that slashed across the face of a rock. At the rock he turned again and was within the box canyon.
The trail that led upward along its edge was faint, but Dave Spanyer started up, followed by Lennie. Higher and higher through a wilderness of rock and cactus they mounted. Suddenly, when almost at the top, the trail dipped sharply down and around the rocks, and Lennie was riding into the hanging valley behind her father.
The edge broke off sharply, and before them was a view of an enormous expanse of country—desert mountains and valleys—streaked with the white of dry washes. They were two thousand feet above the surrounding country here, and just below the rim.
“There’s a spring behind that tree,” Spanyer said.
“Pa…it’s lovely. It really is!”
“You get down and make some coffee. I’ll fetch some wood.”
But her words had caught at his attention, and he looked around him. The grass was green, and the cedars and piñons offered their deeper green and the darkness of their shade, making shadow patterns on the rocks.
“Never thought of it before, Lennie. I reckon this here is really beautiful.”
He walked over to where a sharply tilted strata of rock had broken off, forming a sort of alcove. Here the words scratched under the overhang were easily read, even after fifteen years.
HERE LIES
BURT CARNAVON
DEAD BY THE GUN
1866
“Lived by it, died by it,” Spanyer muttered. “He was a good man…mighty good.”
“Who was?”
Spanyer turned irritably. It always angered him when somebody got close to him without his knowing. Once nobody could have done it, not a rattler, a coyote, or an Apache. His irritation faded when he looked at his daughter. She had a mouth like her mother, the sort of mouth a man always looked at twice.
Damn it, she wasn’t a kid any more! She was filling out fast, and it worried him. This was no way to raise a girl. A boy now, or a colt…with them he knew what he was doing, but Lennie was constantly surprising him with her womanly attitudes and ways.
“Feller buried here.”
“Did you know him, Pa?”
“I buried him.”
He picked up some fallen branches and broke off some dead roots from a gnarled stump.
“Pa…will we have other folks around us where we’re going?”
“I reckon.” He glanced at her. The wistful note in her voice worried him. “It’s been lonely for you, ain’t it, Lennie? You’d set store by neighbors now, wouldn’t you?”
It wasn’t right for a man to keep his daughter in a shack in a cow town. She needed to meet folks, to learn things from other women. She needed to meet some men, some decent men, and he was a mighty poor guide to such a trail.
Burt now, he had been a decent man. God knows he had been no angel, but decent around women, even if quick with a gun. Up to a point he’d been quick…trouble was, a man could never be sure when he wouldn’t meet somebody who was quicker. Or when his gun wouldn’t misfire.
A long time later, when she was huddled into her blankets, he bent over and pulled a couple of sticks back from the fire. It was dying down and he did not want it to burn any longer.
When he lay down he put his gun belt close at hand, with the butt where he could lay a hand on it. He stared up at the stars through the cedar branches, and then his eyes closed.…
His eyes flared wide…only a few coals remained of the fire. Startled to
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