Across the Mesa. Helen Bagg
a little hard of hearing, my dear. Who did you say you were?” asked Jack Morgan’s mother, patiently.
Polly repeated her explanation, adding a few more particulars, all as loudly as possible. They had now an interested audience of Mexicans and Indians, male and female, old and young, who found the scene none the less attractive because they did not understand it.
“Well, I suppose he didn’t get your letter,” said Mrs. Morgan. “Jack and his wife have gone over to spend a few days with some friends in Mescal or they’d run you over in the car.” There was a pause as Polly digested this unwelcome bit of news, then the old lady continued: “They’d only been gone two days when both the children came down with mumps, and my Mexican woman’s husband had to take that time to join the army, so, of course, she had to leave. If things weren’t so messed up I’d take you home with me——”
“Oh, no,” said Polly, promptly. “I couldn’t think of it. If I could just get somebody to drive me over——” Both she and Mrs. Morgan looked at Swartz.
“Mendoza might if he ain’t drunk—sometimes he ain’t,” volunteered that gentleman.
“Oh, no, I don’t think I’d like him,” shivered Polly. “Isn’t there anybody else?”
“Nobody with a car,” replied Mrs. Morgan. “It’d take you till morning to drive over—the roads are awful. Mendoza is a very decent old thing. You go and see if you can get him, Swartz,” and Swartz lumbered away. Old lady Morgan understood how to make herself obeyed. “Have you tried to get Athens on the ’phone?”
“Telephone?” A smile broke over Polly’s unhappy face. “Why, I never thought of that.”
“Good heavens, child, where do you think you are? Here, I’ll get them for you.”
She led the way to the office.
“I haven’t seen your brother since he went up to Douglas to get married,” she said. “Didn’t know they’d come home.”
“Oh, yes, they must be home,” said Polly, an awful doubt coming into her mind. “They—they must be home!”
Mrs. Morgan seized the receiver and began exchanging insults with the invisible Central. After several minutes she gave up the effort.
“It’s no use, I can’t raise them—our service is dreadful down here,” she said. “Now, I’ll tell you what to do. I’ve got to run home before the baby wakes up; if he can’t get Mendoza, you come on down to the house and stay the night with me. See, it’s the last house—got a Union Jack flying from it. If I don’t see you in half an hour I’ll know you’ve gone with Mendoza. You needn’t be afraid of him—he’s half dead but he can drive a Ford,” and the voluble old lady was gone.
Polly wondered for a moment whether she most wanted to laugh or cry. Homesickness and fatigue suggested the latter, but a wild sense of humor poised between the decrepit Mendoza and the deaf Mrs. Morgan won the day. Polly chuckled. Then realizing that it was nearly seven and that she had had nothing to eat since noon, she went to the counter and bought of a Mexican youth, evidently a helper, some crackers. They were in a box and looked a degree cleaner than anything else. The population had wearied of the American lady and had gone its various ways. Polly sat forlornly on a high stool and munched her crackers until Swartz returned.
“No good,” he said. “Mendoza’s sick and he won’t let nobody else drive de car. You better go stay mit de old lady.”
“All right,” said the girl, rising. “I suppose I can leave my trunk on your back porch?”
“Vy not? Ain’t it der station? Vere should you leaf it?” replied Swartz, hospitably.
Polly stepped out of the front door. The sand blizzard was undoubtedly on the wane. The wind was less violent but much cooler. The sun had dropped behind the mountains and the dusk was descending upon the little Mexican town. A few of the houses showed a light, but more of them were dark. The Morgan house, a very long way down the street, it seemed to the girl, was lit and she started to go toward it. A sense of desolation, a forlornness greater than she had ever known in all her short life descended upon her. She swallowed quickly and increased her pace. It wasn’t fear, she reflected, it was worse than fear; it was the awful loneliness of one who had never been really alone in her life.
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