Overland Red: A Romance of the Moonstone Cañon Trail Read online

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  (page 123) OVERLAND LIMITED!]

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  OVERLAND RED

  A ROMANCE OF THE MOONSTONE CANON TRAIL

  WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ANTON FISCHER

  NEW YORK

  GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS

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  COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

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  To I. J. K.

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  CONTENTS

  THE ROAD xi I. THE PROSPECTOR 3 II. WATER 10 III. RAGGED ROMANCE 14 IV. "ANY ROAD, AT ANY TIME, FOR ANYWHERE" 25 V. "CAN HE RIDE?" 39 VI. ADVOCATE EXTRAORDINARY 48 VII. THE GIRL WHO GLANCED BACK 60 VIII. THE TEST 72 IX. A CELESTIAL ENTERPRISE 88 X. "PERFECTLY HARMLESS LITTLE OLE TENDERFOOT" 98 XI. DESERT LAW 110 XII. "FOOL'S LUCK" 125 XIII. THE RETURN 132 XIV. "CALL IT THE 'ROSE GIRL'" 141 XV. SILENT SAUNDERS 157 XVI. BLUNDER 163 XVII. GUESTS 177 XVIII. A RED EPISODE 185 XIX. "TO CUT MY TRAIL LIKE THAT" 202 XX. THE LED HORSE 211 XXI. BORROWED PLUMES 223 XXII. THE YUMA COLT 231 XXIII. SILENT SAUNDERS SPEAKS 247 XXIV. "LIKE SUNSHINE" 254 XXV. IN THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS 262 XXVI. SPECIAL 273 XXVII. THE RIDERS 278 XXVIII. GOPHERTOWN 288 XXIX. TOLL 299 XXX. TWO ROSES 305 XXXI. NIGHT 320 XXXII. MORNING 332 XXXIII. A SPEECH 345

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  ILLUSTRATIONS

  OVERLAND LIMITED! (page 123) FrontispieceTHE GIRL'S LEVEL GRAY EYES STUDIED THE TRAMP'S FACE 16"IT'S A CLEAN-UP" 296"CAN'T I HAVE ANOTHER ONE, ROSE GIRL?" 340

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  The Road

  Through the San Fernando Valley, toward the hills of Calabasas runs thatold road, El Camino Real of the early Mission days.

  And now replicas of old Mission bells, each suspended in solitarydignity from a rusted iron rod, mark intervals along the dusty way, oncea narrow trail worn by the patient feet of that gentle and great padre,Junipero Serra,--a trail from the San Gabriel Valley to the shores ofMonterey. A narrow trail then, but, even then, to him it was broad inits potential significance of the dawn of Grace upon the mountain shoresof Heaven's lost garden, California.

  Not far from one iron-posted bell in the valley, El Camino Real falters,to find, eventually, a lazy way round the low foothills, as thoughreluctant to lift its winding length over the sharp pitch of the CanajoPass, beyond.

  Near this lone bell another road, an offspring of old El Camino Real,runs quickly from its gray and patient sire. Branching south in hurriedturns and multiple windings it climbs the rolling hills, ever dodgingthe rude-piled masses of rock, with scattered brush between, but foreveraspiring courageously through the mountain sage and sunshine toward itsultimate green rest in the shadowy hills.

  In the sweet sage is the drone of bees, like the hum of a far city. Thethinning, acrid air is tinged with the faint fragrance of sunburntshrubs and grasses.

  With the sinuous avoidings of a baffled snake the road turns and turnsupon itself until its earlier promise of high adventuring seemsdoubtful. As often as not it climbs a semi-barren dun stretch ofsunbaked earth dotted with stubby cacti--passes these dwarfedgrotesques, and attempts the narrowing crest of the canon-wall, to swingabruptly back to the cacti again, gaining but little in its upwardtrend.

  Impatient, it finally plunges dizzily round a sharp, outstanding angleof rock and down into the unexpected enchantment of Moonstone Canon.Here the gaunt cliffs rise to great wild gardens, draped with soft roseand poignant red amid drowsy undertones of gray and green and gold. Dotsof vivid colors flame and fade and pass to ledges of dank, vineclad rockand drifts of shale, as the road climbs again.

  At the next turn are the indistinct voices of water, commingling in amonotone--and the road ceases to be, as the cool silver of a mountainstream cuts through it, with seemingly inconsequential meanderings, butwith the soft arrogance of a power too great to be denied. And theindistinct voices, left behind, fade to unimaginable sounds as thestream patters down its gravelly course, contented beyond measure withits own adventuring.

  Patiently the road takes up its way, moving in easier sweeps through awidening valley, but forever climbing.

  Again and again, fetlock deep across it runs the stream, gentlypersistent and forever murmuring its happy soliloquies.

  Here and there the road passes quickly through a blot of shade,--a groupof wide-spreading live-oaks,--and reappears, gray-white and hot in thesun.

  And then, its high ambition fulfilled, the road recovers from its lastclimbing sweep round the base of a shouldering hill and runs straightand smooth to its ultimate green rest in the shade of the sycamores.Beyond these two huge-limbed warders of the mountain ranch gate, thereis a flower-bordered _way_, but it is the road no longer.

  The mountain ranch takes its name from the canon below. It is theMoonstone Ranch, the home of Louise, whose ancestors, the Lacharmes,grew roses in old France.

  Among the many riders to and from the ranch, there is one, a great,two-fisted, high-complexioned man, whose genial presence is everwelcome. He answers to many names. To the youngsters he is "UncleJack,"--usually with an exclamation. To some of the older folk he is"Mr. Summers," or "Jack." Again, the foreman of the Moonstone Ranchseldom calls him anything more dignified than "Red." Louise doessometimes call him--quite affectionately--"Overland."

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