The Man of the Desert
© 2015 by Grace Livingston Hill
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All scripture quotations are taken from the King James Version of the Bible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.
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Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
About the Author
Chapter 1
Prospecting
It was morning, high and clear as Arizona counts weather. A crowd of curious onlookers had gathered around the little railroad station—seven Indians, three women from nearby shacks, the usual loungers, and a swarm of children—to see the private car the night express had left on a side track. The station agent had also come outside to watch the activity.
All morning the private car was an object of deep interest to those who lived within sight, and that was everybody on the plateau. Many and varied were the errands and excuses for going to the station in case the car’s occupants or interior might be glimpsed. But the silky curtains remained drawn until after nine o’clock.
In the last half hour, however, a change had taken place in the silent inscrutable car. The curtains were parted here and there, revealing shadowed flitting faces and a table spread with a snowy cloth and wildflowers in a vase, like those that grew along the track, just weeds. It was strange for people who could afford a private car to care for weeds in a glass on their dining table, but perhaps they didn’t know.
A stout cook with ebony skin and white linen attire appeared on the rear platform beating eggs, half whistling and half singing, “Be my little baby bumblebee, buzz around, buzz around—” He seemed in no way affected or embarrassed by the natives gradually circling the end of the car or the growing audience.
They could make out the table where the car’s inhabitants were having dinner—it surely couldn’t be breakfast at that hour. They heard a discussion about horses amid laughter and lively conversation and concluded the car was to remain here for the day at least while some of the party went off on a horseback trip. It wasn’t unusual. Such things occasionally occurred in that region but not often enough for them to lose their appeal. And to watch the tourists who stopped in their tiny settlement was the only way for the people to learn the fashions.
Even the station agent felt the importance of the occasion and stood around with the self-consciousness of an usher at a great wedding, considering himself master of ceremonies.
“Sure! They come from the East last night. Limited dropped ’em! Going down to prospect some mine, I reckon. They ordered horses an’ a outfit, and Shag Bunce is goin’ with ’em. He got a letter ’bout a week ago tellin’ what they wanted of him. Yes, I knowed all about it. He brung the letter to me to cipher out fer him. You know Shag ain’t so great at readin’ ef he is the best judge of a mine anywheres about.”
At eleven o’clock the horses arrived, four besides Shag’s, and the rest of the outfit. The onlookers regarded Shag with the mournful interest due the undertaker at a funeral. Shag felt it and acted accordingly. He gave short, gruff orders to his men; called attention to straps and buckles everyone knew were in perfect order; and criticized the horses and his men. And everyone, even the horses, bore it with perfect composure. They were all showing off for the important event.
Presently the car door opened, and Mr. Radcliffe stepped out on the platform with his son, a handsome, reckless-looking fellow; his daughter, Hazel; and Mr. Hamar, a thickset, heavy-featured man with dark hair, jaunty black mustache, and handsome black eyes. In the background stood an elderly woman in tailor-made attire, bearing a severe expression. She was Mr.
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