13. Reunion
The village of Quartzite was never calculated to overwhelm withmetropolitan sweep or impress with architectural grandeur. Completelysurrounded by the Arizona desert, sometimes it was oddly like a captivevillage, a prisoner of the desert. But in a very real sense Quartzitewas a true monument, a tribute to the human beings who first had thecourage to trespass in such a forbidding land and then dared build homesand live there.
The men gathered at a Quartzite inn varied in various ways, but all borethe stamp of the desert. Tiny wrinkles etched the eyes of each man, and,though none were aware of it, even here in the cool and shaded inn,they squinted. That was something they learned in the desert, where theyfaced a blazing sun for hours on end and squinted to shield their eyes,until the habit became so ingrained that they never forgot to practiceit. The door opened and another man entered. One of those presentgreeted him with, "Welcome, stranger!"
The newcomer grinned. "Thought I'd best have me a look at civilization,been away so long that the other day I found myself talkin' with a packrat. Saw the darndest thing when I walked in."
"What?"
"A camel." At once the newcomer was the center of interest. "A big redcamel."
"Go on!" his friend exclaimed.
"It's true," the newcomer insisted. "He's right where Boney Wash crossesSkull Canyon. Layin' down, he is, like he might be sick or hurt. Buthe's there."
The only man present who did not gather around the speaker had beensitting alone and unnoticed. He rose. An old man with snow-white hairand beard, there was that about him which spoke of many burdens carried,and yet he bore the weight of his years with a certain assurance. Whenhe walked to and opened the door and slipped into the overcast earlyspring afternoon, his absence went as unnoticed as his presence hadbeen.
Ali closed the door behind him. Safe from prying eyes, he quivered withexcitement.
The last arrival was a prospector, one of many original optimists whoconstantly roamed the desert, engaged in prodigious labors that wereseldom granted the smallest reward and never once doubted that they hadonly to keep on and all the desert's dazzling riches would be yielded upto them. Recently, he'd been working in hills to the north, and his bestway to Quartzite would be down Skull Canyon.
A red camel, the man had said, lay at the junction of Skull Canyon andBoney Wash. Ali couldn't remember how many times his own prospectingtrips had taken him up Skull Canyon. He left the village and started torun, but his legs were no longer capable of running far, so he droppedback to a walk. The increasingly cooler evening wind, one of variousreasons why Ali had finally turned his back on the desert to live withgenerous friends at Quartzite, he scarcely noticed.
He had gone to live at Quartzite six years ago, three years before theturn of the century and a few days before his seventieth birthday. BenAkbar was old too, but even if he'd been welcome in Quartzite, hewouldn't have been happy there. Ali's last trip into the desert had beenfor the sole purpose of taking Ben Akbar to the most isolated spot heknew--and no man knew more than Ali about the wildest and mostinaccessible areas--and leaving him there.
Escorting camels into the desert and turning them loose was nothing new.Twenty times in years gone by Ali had thus disposed of beasts he was nolonger able to support. Invariably, however, he either went and got themagain or found some new herd for some new venture. Though not one otherperson in the entire Southwest shared his conviction that camels wouldeventually triumph--Ali's faith never flickered.
He'd loosed all the camels in the best places he knew. Ben Akbar,however, was a special case.
Though camels thrived in the desert and might have multiplied, as far asanyone knew, only camel ghosts had come to the water holes in recentyears. Finding them gentle and easy to approach, Indians and white menalike killed them for food, and sometimes merely for killing's sake.Many had been captured and were with various circuses or zoos. Ben Akbarwas both the last to have been in any active and useful service and thelast American camel not in confinement.
There were still rumors of desert-roaming camels, but all such were bornin somebody's imagination and there were no reliable reports. Nor hadthere been since Ali loosed Ben Akbar, which might mean that Ali hadsucceeded in taking him so far away that nobody had yet found him. Or itmight mean that he was no longer to be found; passing years hadprobably not spared the camel any more than the master.
Just before nightfall, the wind lulled and then died down. A bright moonrode high, lighting the path but softening harsh angles and shadowinginto gentle harmlessness all that was seen as hard and harsh under thesun's pitiless glare. Presently, every cactus was bedecked in a sparkleof rare jewels as moonlight glanced from frosty branches. Ali's thoughtswent to a snug cave he knew, plenty big enough for a camel who was nolonger as restless as he once had been.
Ali walked on, resentful of both his necessarily slow pace and a growingskepticism that came over him as he drew farther from the town anddeeper into the desert. A red camel, the prospector had said, but therehad been several red camels with the herd and there was still seventymiles of desert to cross before reaching the place where Ben Akbar wasfreed. Though there had been a time when seventy miles would have meantno more than a pleasant jaunt, could an aging Ben Akbar walk so far?
Then Ali came to the junction of Skull Canyon and Boney Wash. Hestopped--and instantly he knew!
At this point, Skull Canyon was about fifty yards from the base of onerocky wall to the foot of another. Boney Wash had been born whentorrential rains crumbled a rift in the east wall. The flood that hadpoured through then had ripped a ragged ditch in the canyon floor.Above the ditch, the canyon was level, for the most part pebble-strewn,but here and there was a boulder or copse of cactus. Under the gentlemoonlight, the canyon became gentle.
All four legs curled beneath him and head cushioned against his flank,apparently Ben Akbar had been on his way down the canyon and had laindown to rest when forbidding Boney Wash gaped before him. Ali's eyessoftened, for it seemed no accident that on this night the moon shouldglow in such a fashion. The Ben Akbar Ali had last seen had shown thesunken cheeks, shriveled neck, worn teeth and stiffened joints of theaging. Under the magic moon, the Ben Akbar he met might have been theproud young _dalul_ he had rescued from the Druse and who, in turn, hadrescued him. Even the many hairs that were no longer red, but white,could have been sparkling with frost.
Ali went a step nearer and crooned, "I greet thee, oh prince among_dalul_."
There was a ripple along flanks and ribs, but only after a markedinterval was Ben Akbar able to raise his head. Ali dropped beside himand eased the proud head into his lap. He stroked it gently.
"We meet again, oh, brother," he murmured. "It is well."
He continued to caress Ben Akbar, and, under the soft moon, a thoughtfulexpression came over his face. There had been a very long time and avery long journey since he had boarded the _Supply_. Now he sat in thedesert, comforting the last remaining camel of all that were brought toAmerica. How could such an auspicious beginning lead to this end?
The failure could not be charged to the camels. Lieutenant Beale himselfhad declared that any one of them was worth any six mules. Then who, orwhat, was to blame? Ali considered various explanations that had beenadvanced.
Some declared that the entire experiment was fore-doomed by anonymousbut invincible forces interested in perpetuating large profits derivedfrom horse and mule trading. Their combined strength overwhelmed theadvocates of camel transport. These reports were partly right, Aliconceded, but not entirely so. He could not imagine Major Wayne orLieutenant Beale yielding to the combined power of anything. Anyhow, itwent without saying that these forces had done all they could to preventthe importation of camels in the first place. They had not succeeded.
It was true that neither Major Wayne nor Lieutenant Beale had beenactive in the Camel Corps for years, and Jefferson Davis no longermattered after the Confederacy he headed lost the War between theStates. But adverse influence alone had ne
ver defeated the camels.
Many contended that the War itself was responsible. Nobody had time forcamels while the battles raged and nobody was interested when peacecame. Another part truth, Ali decided, but by no means a whole truth. Tosay that the War between the States doomed camels was as absurd asdeclaring it doomed railroads.
Even the popular refusal to accept camels--that sometimes mounted toflaring resentment against them--was not to blame for their downfall.That which has practical worth cannot forever remain unnoticed andcamels had proved themselves superior to any other beast of burden.
Ali bent his head and crooned softly in Ben Akbar's ear. The big _dalul_sighed softly and pressed his chin hard against his friend's knee. Aliresumed caressing the camel.
What ill wind, he wondered, had blown the day these camels were finallyaboard and the _Supply_ set sail? They had come and they had proventhemselves, but far from any conquest they had found only oblivion. Why?
Ali straightened unconsciously as he thought of the day LieutenantBeale's expedition had left Fort Defiance and started west. His mindbecame a screen upon which appeared a complete review of every singleday that had followed. Ali lived again, as he had before, the wholeexciting caravan into unknown wilderness.
Then, skipping his two years in California, Ali rode Ben Akbar back tothe Colorado and the massed wagons awaiting ferry transport. Therefollowed, in complete detail, his return ride over the road. Again hesaw the burgeoning civilization that had overrun a virgin wilderness.Finally, he knew the right answer, and knowing, must question no more.
The camels had not yielded to any petty thing, but had bowed to a forceso powerful that nothing could stand against it. All the armies of allthe world could bring human progress to no more than a temporary halt,and not even the swiftest _dalul_ could hope to keep pace with thebreathtaking march of civilization as America knew it. If the camels hadbeen imported fifty years sooner, or if America had been satisfied towait fifty years longer to develop her wilderness, then indeed would allAmericans know the true worth of camels.
As the course was run, most Americans would know camels only aslegendary ships of the desert or exotic imports whose proper abode wasthe circus or zoo. Those few who did learn about the Camel Corps, mighthear of it as a glaring example of the hare-brained schemes that may bedreamed up by scatter-brained people. Nevertheless, Ali was suddenlyhappy and again knew a complete peace.
He and Ben Akbar were reunited never to be parted again, and he, atleast, knew the true story of the Camel Corps. Nothing anyone might sayor do could change in the smallest detail what had already been done.The people who spilled over Lieutenant Beale's wagon road might neverknow that the pillars of their churches, the foundations of theirschools, their homes, their very way of life, were anchored onlong-forgotten camel tracks. But they would not be there if camels hadnot led the way.
Given only one real opportunity, the camels had contributed more thantheir full share. Ali knew finally that, if he might return over theyears and once more look at camels being taken aboard the _Supply_, andif he might also look ahead and see all the future, he would again do ashe had done and come to America.
The journey had not been in vain. What had seemed to be heartbreakingfailure showed its true colors under the correct light. Triumph wascomplete.
Ali stood up. "Rise," he said.
Slowly, Ben Akbar rose to his feet and the two started along the silverypath together.
JIM KJELGAARD
was born in New York City. Happily enough, he was still in thepre-school age when his father decided to move the family to thePennsylvania mountains. There young Jim grew up among some of the besthunting and fishing in the United States. He says: "If I had pursued myscholastic duties as diligently as I did deer, trout, grouse, squirrels,etc., I might have had better report cards!"
Jim Kjelgaard has worked at various jobs--trapper, teamster, guide,surveyor, factory worker and laborer. When he was in the late twentieshe decided to become a full-time writer. He has succeeded in his wish.He has published several hundred short stories and articles and quite afew books for young people.
His hobbies are hunting, fishing, dogs, and questing for new stories. Hetells us: "Story hunts have led me from the Atlantic to the Pacific andfrom the Arctic Circle to Mexico City. Stories, like gold, are where youfind them. You may discover one three thousand miles from home, as in_Rescue Dog of the High Pass_, or, as in _The Spell of the WhiteSturgeon_, right on your own door step." And he adds: "I am married to avery beautiful girl and have a teen-age daughter. Both of them order mearound in a shameful fashion, but I can still boss the dog! We live inPhoenix, Arizona."
* * * * *
Books by Jim Kjelgaard
_Big Red_ _Rebel Siege_ _Forest Patrol_ _Buckskin Brigade_ _Chip, the Dam Builder_ _Fire Hunter_ _Irish Red_ _Kalak of the Ice_ _A Nose for Trouble_ _Snow Dog_ _The Story of Geronimo_ _Stormy_ _Cochise, Chief of Warriors_ _Trailing Trouble_ _Wild Trek_ _The Explorations of Pere Marquette_ _The Spell of the White Sturgeon_ _Outlaw Red_ _The Coming of the Mormons_ _Cracker Barrel Trouble Shooter_ _The Lost Wagon_ _Lion Hound_ _Trading Jeff and His Dog_ _Desert Dog_ _Haunt Fox_ _The Oklahoma Land Run_ _Double Challenge_ _Swamp Cat_ _Rescue Dog of the High Pass_ _Hi Jolly!_
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