“More tea here,” Salty announced, and filled the teacups.
The sagebrush on the fire sputtered into a last flicker of flame. There was a lull in the conversation and, in that momentary lull, the silence of the desert made itself so apparent that it seemed to dominate the senses — a silence so intense that the lull in the conversation became a blanket of silence.
The last wavering flame flickered bravely, then vanished, leaving only a bed of glowing coals. Almost instantly the circle of darkness, which had been waiting just outside the campfire, moved in with a rush. The stars overhead brightened into added brilliance. A vagrant breeze coming down from off the higher ridges behind the camp fanned the coals into deep red for a moment. Over all, the brooding silence of the desert cast its spell.
Wordlessly, Salty got up, walked out into the darkness. Long experience in moving around at night without artificial illumination had made him as sure of himself as a blind man moving about through familiar surroundings.
“Well, guess I’ll be turning in. Good night.”
Dr. Kenward tried to get to his feet without asking Velma Starler for assistance, hut she was at his side helping him up within less than a second. “Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to get up?” she asked chidingly.
“I don’t want to be so dependent.”
“You’ve got to get over that some time. You have to depend on other people some. Are you going to bed?”
“I think so. If you’ll help me with my shoes... That’s fine! I don’t want to bend that leg... Thanks.”
Mason and Della Street sat by the dying fire, sharing the desert silence, looking into the red circle of coals.
Behind them the range of high mountains was a black silhouette against the western stars. Ahead and to the east the country dropped sharply into mysterious nebulous darkness which they knew held the level expanse of desert. Directly in front of them, the little circle of glowing coals gradually faded into a mere pool of pastel color which the night winds no longer had the power to fan into brilliance.
Mason’s hand moved over, found Della Street’s hand, took possession of it and held it in quiet understanding.
In the east, a faint band of nebulous illumination as vague and indistinct as the first flickers of Northern Lights paled the brilliance of the stars. Then, after a few minutes, the eastern range of mountains far out on the other side of the desert showed as a threadlike, saw-toothed strip outlined against a yellow illumination. This illumination grew in intensity until the slightly lopsided moon rose majestically to pour light over the surface far beneath them, bringing out ridges which were tinged with gold above pools of black shadow, pools that kept shrinking.
For more than two hours Mason and Della Street sat there watching the ever-changing spectacle, surrounded by the vast spell of silence.
Chapter 18
Mason was awakened from deep slumber by the bugling of a burro. Almost immediately the other burro joined in the chorus, and Mason was grinning even as he opened his eyes.
The dawn was crisp and cool. One or two of the bright stars were still visible. There was not enough moisture in the sky to form even the faintest wisp of cloud, nor was there any trace of dew on the outside of the sleeping bag. The distant mountain range to the east was a narrow sawblade of black, outlined against a greenish blue illumination that tapered off into darkness. It was as yet too early to distinguish colors, but the sleeping camp showed objects in gray outlines.
Mason struggled to a sitting position and, as his back and shoulders emerged from the sleeping bag, the body warmth which the down covers had wrapped around him was whisked away in the cold still air, and Mason promptly shot back down into the warm covers.
The burros had seen him move, and, walking with dainty, careful feet, moved over to his sleeping bag. Mason felt a silky soft nose nuzzling around his ear. Then, after a moment, lips nibbled at his hair.
The lawyer laughed and struggled out of the sleeping bag and into his clothes. Apparently the braying of the burros had not aroused any of the other sleepers. The bags were motionless mounds in the increasing light of early dawn.
Mason kept feeling colder as he dressed. There was no breath of air stirring, but the crisp mountain air was definitely cold. He looked around for feed for the burros and could find none, nor did the animals seem to expect any. Apparently they had only wanted human companionship, desired only to see the camp stirred into life. Once Mason started moving around, the burros sagged into a posture of contentment, ears drooping forward, heads lowered.
Mason broke up dry sagebrush, kindled it with a match, soon had a fire going. He was looking around for supplies when Salty Bowers, a businesslike six-shooter strapped to his hip, came swinging out from behind the rock outcropping and into the open.
Salty nodded to Mason, apparently avoiding conversation that would waken the other sleepers. He moved over to the burros, rubbed his hand along their necks and ears, poured ice-cold water from a canteen into a basin, washed, then put coffee on the fire. As Mason washed, the bracing water stung glowing circulation into his face and hands.
“Cold up here,” he said.
“Nights are cold,” Salty agreed. “You’re way up, up here. Wait until the sun rises and you won’t be bothered none with cold.”
Mason helped with the cooking, noticing that Della Street’s sleeping bag became convulsed with motion as she did most of her dressing under cover of the bag. A few moments later she joined him at the fire.
“Sleep?” Mason asked.
“Sleep!” she exclaimed. “The most marvelous sleep I’ve ever had in my life. Usually when I sleep so heavily, I wake up feeling drugged. Now my lungs feel all washed out and— When do we eat?”
“Pretty soon,” Salty said.
The east became a dazzling sheet of vivid orange. The edges of the silhouetted mountains seemed coated with liquid gold. The first small segment of sun put in a dazzling appearance. The desert began taking on pastel shades of color. Mason, seeing the need for more firewood, broke up brittle, dry sage and brought it in to where Salty was slicing bacon with a razor-keen knife.
The sun swung clear of the mountains, hung poised for a few moments as though gathering strength, and then sent rays of golden warmth flooding the camp. For the next quarter hour, Mason was too busy assisting in the preparations to pay too much attention to his surroundings. Then suddenly he realized that not only had he ceased being cold, but that it was getting hot.
The aroma of coffee mingled with the smoky tang of bacon. Velma Starler and Dr. Kenward joined the group around the fire. Soon they were eating golden brown hot cakes swimming with melted butter, rich with syrup, with strips of meaty bacon to add just the right tang of smoky salt. The coffee was a clear deep brown with plenty of full-bodied flavor.
“What’s the secret?” Velma Starler asked, laughing. “Doesn’t rationing bother you?”
Salty grinned. “Banning Clarke laid in a cache of canned goods up here a while back.”
“Didn’t he declare them?” Mason asked.
“Sure he declared them. They’ll be tearing half the coupons out of his book from now until the middle of nineteen-seventy-six. He liked his grub, and he hated to carry too much stuff in by burro-back, so he trucked stuff out part way and got packers to bring it in. You’d be surprised how long canned butter keeps when it’s buried in a cool place. Same with vacuum-packed coffee. — Rationing’s all right for people in the city,” Salty went on with some feeling, “but you take a prospector that has to go in and load up with enough provisions to last him for months, and he just can’t get by on ration stuff. He has to use all canned goods and dried foods. — Oh well, we’re all right, thanks to the stuff we got cached around here. You can eat all you want an’ stay as long as you like and it won’t hurt a bit.”