The Eye of Dread

“It is better we rest, mother. The kind man asks us.”

“Non, Amalia, non. We go on. It is best that we not wait.”

Then the daughter spoke rapidly in their own tongue, and the mother bowed her head and allowed herself to be lifted from the saddle. Her daughter then unrolled her blanket and, speaking still in her own tongue, with difficulty persuaded her mother to lie down on the mountain side, as they were directed, and the girl lay beside her, covering her tenderly and pillowing her mother’s head on her arm. The big man led the animals farther on and sat down with his back against a great rock, and waited.

They lay thus until the mother slept the sleep of exhaustion; then Amalia rose cautiously, not to awaken her, and went over to him. Her teeth chattered with the cold, and she drew a little shawl closer across her chest.

“This is a very hard way–so warm in the day and so cold in the night. It is not possible that I sleep. The cold drives me to move.”

“You ought to have put part of that blanket over yourself. It’s going to be a long pull up the mountain, and you ought to sleep a little. Walk about a bit to warm yourself and then try again to sleep.”

“Yes. I try.”

She turned docilely and walked back and forth, then very quietly crept under the blanket beside her mother. He watched them a while, and when he deemed she also must be sleeping, he removed his coat and gently laid it over the girl. By that time darkness had settled heavily over the mountain. The horses ceased browsing among the chaparral and lay down, and the big man stretched himself for warmth close beside his sorrel horse, on the stony ground. Thus in the stillness they all slept; at last, over the mountain top the moon rose.

Higher and higher it crept up in the sky, and the stars waned before its brilliant whiteness. The big man roused himself then, and looked at the blanket under which the two women slept, and with a muttered word of pity began gathering weeds and brush with which to build a fire. It should be a very small fire, hidden by chaparral from the plains below, and would be well stamped out and the charred place covered with stones and brush when they left it. Soon he had steeped a pot of coffee and fried some bacon, then he quickly put out his fire and woke the two women. The younger sprang up, and, finding his coat over her, took it to him and thanked him with rapid utterance.

“Oh, you are too kind. I am sorry you have deprive yourself of your coat to put it over me. That is why I have been so warm.”

The mother rose and shook out her skirt and glanced furtively about her. “It is not the morning? It is the moon. That is well we go early.” She drank the coffee hurriedly and scarcely tasted the bacon and hard biscuit. “It is no toilet we have here to make. So we go more quickly. So is good.”

“But you must eat the food, mother. You will be stronger for the long, hard ride. You have not here to hurry. No one follows us here.”

“Your father may be already by the camp, Amalia–to bring us help–yes. But of those men ‘rouge’–if they follow and rob us–”

The two women spoke English out of deference to the big man, and only dropped into their own language or into fluent French when necessity compelled them, or they thought themselves alone.

“Ah, but those red men, mother, they do not come here, so the kind man told us, for now they are also kind. Sit here and eat the biscuit. I will ask him.”

She went over to where he stood by the animals, pouring a very little water from the cans carried by the pack mule for each one. “They’ll have to hold out on this for the day, but they may only have half of it now,” he said.

“What shall I do?” Amalia looked with wide, distressed eyes in his face. “She believes it yet, that my father lives and has gone to the camp for help. She thinks we go to him,–to the camp. How can I tell her? I cannot–I dare not.”

“Let her think what satisfies her most. We can tell her as much as is best for her to know, a little at a time, and there will be plenty of time to do it in. We’ll be snowed up on this mountain all winter.” The young woman did not reply, but stood perfectly still, gazing off into the moonlit wilderness. “When people get locoed this way, the only thing is to humor them and give them a chance to rest satisfied in something–no matter what, much,–only so they are not hectored. No mind can get well when it is being hectored.”

“Hectored? That is to mean–tortured? Yes, I understand. It is that we not suffer the mind to be tortured?”

“About that, yes.”

“Thank you. I try to comfort her. But it is to lie to her? It is not a sin, when it is for the healing?”

“I’m not authority on that, Miss, but I know lying’s a blessing sometimes.”

“If I could make her see the marvelous beauty of this way we go, but she will not look. Me, I can hardly breathe for the wonder–yet–I do not forget my father is dead.”

“I’m starting you off now, because it will not be so hard on either you or the horses to travel by night, as long as it is light enough to see the way. Then when the sun comes out hot, we can lie by a bit, as we did yesterday.”

“Then is no fear of the red men we met on the plains?”

“They’re not likely to follow us up here–not at this season, and now the railroad’s going through, they’re attracted by that.”

“Do they never come to you, at your home?”

“Not often. They think I’m a sort of white ‘medicine man’–kind of a hoodoo, and leave me alone.”

She looked at him with mystification in her eyes, but did not ask what he meant, and returned to her mother.

“I have eaten. Now we go, is not?”

“Yes, mother. The kind man says we go on, and the red men will not follow us.”

“Good. I have afraid of the men ‘rouge.’ Your father knows not fear; only I know it.”

Soon they were mounted and traveling up the trail as before, the little pack mule following in the rear. No breeze stirred to make the frosty air bite more keenly, and the women rode in comparative comfort, with their hands wrapped in their shawls to keep them warm. They did not try to converse, or only uttered a word now and then in their own tongue. Amalia’s spirit was enrapt in the beauty around and above and below her, so that she could not have spoken more than the merest word for a reply had she tried.

The moonlight brought all the immediate surroundings into sharp relief, and the distant hills in receding gradations seemed to be created out of molten silver touched with palest gold. Above, the vault of the heavens was almost black, and the stars were few, but clear. Even the stones that impeded the horses’ feet seemed to be made of silver. The depths below them seemed as vast and black as the vault above, except for the silver bath of light that touched the tops of the gigantic trees at the bottom of the cañon around which they were climbing.

The silence of this vastness was as fraught with mystery as the scene, and was broken only by the scrambling of the horses over the stones and their heavy breathing. Thus throughout the rest of the night they wended steadily upward, only pausing now and then to allow the animals to breathe, and then on. At last a thing occurred to break the stillness and strike terror to Amalia’s heart. It had occurred once the day before when the silence was most profound. A piercing cry rent the air, that began in a scream of terror and ended in a long-drawn wail of despair.

Amalia slipped from her horse and stumbled over the rough ground to her mother’s side and poured forth a stream of words in her own tongue, and clasped her arms about the rigid form that did not bend toward her, but only sat staring into the white night as if her eye perceived a sight from which she could not turn away.

“Look at me, mother. Oh, try to make her look at me!” The big man lifted her from the horse, and she relaxed into trembling. “There, it is gone now. Walk with me, mother;” and the two walked for a while, holding hands, and Amalia talked unceasingly in low, soothing tones.

After a little time longer the moon paled and the stars disappeared, and soon the sky became overspread with the changing coloring and the splendor of dawn. Then the sun rose out of the glory, but still they kept on their way until the heat began to overcome them. Then they halted where some pines and high rocks made a shelter, but this time the big man did not build a fire. He gave them a little coffee which he had saved for them from what he had steeped during the night, and they ate and rested, and the mother fell quickly into the sleep of exhaustion, as before.

Thus during the middle of the day they rested, Amalia and the big man sometimes sleeping and sometimes conversing quietly.

“I don’t know why mother does this. I never knew her to until yesterday. Father never used to let her look straight ahead of her as she does now. She has always been very brave and strong. She has done wonderful things–but I was not there. When troubles came on my father, I was put in a convent–I know now it was to keep me from harm. I did not know then why I was sent away from them, for my father was not of the religion of the good sisters at the convent,–but now I know–it was to save me.”

“Why did troubles come on your father?”

“What he did I do not know, but I am very sure it was nothing wrong. In my country sometimes men have to break the law to do right; my mother has told me so. He was in prison a long time when I was living in the convent, sheltered and cared for,–and mother–mother was working all alone to get him out–all alone suffering.”

“How could they keep you there if she had to work so hard?”

“My father had a friend. He was not of our country, and he was most kind and good. I think he was of Scotland–or maybe of Ireland; I was so little I do not know. He saved for my mother some of her money so the government did not get it. I think my mother gave it to him, once–before the trouble came. Maybe she knew it would come,–anyway, so it was. I do not know if he was Irish, or of Scotland–but he must have been a good man.”

“Been? Is he dead?”

“Yes. It was of a fever he died. My mother told me. He gave us his name, and to my father his papers to leave our country, for he knew he would die, or my father never could have got out of the country. I never saw him but once. When I saw you, I thought of him. He was grand and good, as are you. My mother came for me at the convent in Paris, and in the night we went to my father, and in the morning we went to the great ship. We said McBride, and all was well. If we had said Manovska when we took the ship, we would have been sent back and my father would have been killed. In the prison we would have died. It was hard to get on the ship, but when we got to this country, nobody cared who got off.”

“How long ago was that?”

“It was at the time of your great war we came. My mother wore the dress of our peasant women, and I did the same.”

“And were you quite safe in this country?”

“For a long time we lived very quietly, and we thought we were. But after a time some one came, and father took him in, and then others came, and went away again, and came again–I don’t know why–they did not tell me,–but this I know. Some one had a great enmity against my father, and at last mother took me in the night to a strange place where we knew no one, and then we went to another place–and to still another. It was very wearisome.”