These were desperate reflections,and the future seemed framed in solitude,yet Brick Willock rode on with that odd smile about the grim lips.The smile was unlike him--but,the whole affair was such an experience as had never entered his most daring fancy.Never before in his life had he held a child in his arms,still less had he felt the sweet embrace of peaceful slumber.To another man it might have meant nothing;but to this great rough fellow,the very sight of whom had often struck terror to the heart,that experience seemed worth all the privations he foresaw.
The sun had risen when the pony,after a few tottering steps,suddenly sank to earth.Willock unfastened the halter from its neck,tied it with the lariat about his waist,and without pause,set out afoot.If the pony died from the terrible strain of that unremitting flight,doubtless the roving Indians of the plains would find it and try to follow his trail;if it survived he would be safer if not found near it.In either case,swift flight was still imperative,and the shifting sand,beaten out of shape by the constant wind,promised not to retain his footprints.
Though stiff from long riding,the change of motion soon brought renewed vigor.Willock had grown thirsty,and as the sun rose higher and beat down on him from an unclouded sky,his eyes searched the plains eagerly for some shelter that promised water.He did not look in vain.Against the horizon rose the low blue shapes of the Wichita Mountains,looking at first like flat sheets of cardboard,cut out by a careless hand and set upright in the sand.
As he toiled toward this refuge,not a living form appeared to dispute his sovereignty of the desert world.His feet sank deep in the sand,then trod lightly over vast stretches of short sun-burned mesquit,then again traversed hot shifting reaches of naked sand.The mountains seemed to recede as he advanced,and at times stifling dust and relentless heat threatened to overpower him.With dogged determination he told himself that he might be forced to drop from utter exhaustion,but it would not be yet--not yet--one more mile,or,at least,another half-mile.So he advanced,growing weaker,breathing with more difficulty,but still muttering,Not yet--not just yet!
The mountains had begun to spread apart.There were long ranges and short.Here and there,a form that had seemed an integral part of some range,defined itself as distinct from all others,lying like an island of rock in a sea of unbroken desert.Willock was approaching the Wichita Mountains from their southwestern extremity.As far as he could see in one direction,the grotesque forms stretched in isolated chains or single groups;but in the other,the end was reached,and beyond lay the unbroken waste of the Panhandle.
Swaying on his great legs as with the weakness of an infant,he was now very near the end of the system.A wall of granite,sparsely dotted with green,rose above him to a height of about three hundred and fifty feet.The length of this range was perhaps six miles,its thickness a mile.Concealed among these ridges,he might be safe,but it was no longer possible for him to stand erect;to climb the difficult ledges would be impossible.
