It was invisible,and his highest hopes were realized.From this extended mouth he could clearly see where the first spur shot out into the sand,and beyond that,he could see how,at a distance,the sheer wall of granite rose to the sky;but there was nothing to suggest that behind that scarred arm another projection parallel to it might be discovered.He walked toward the spur,always watching for a possible glimpse of the cove.When he stood on the inner side,his spirits rose higher.The long flat island that he had discerned from the mountain-top was here not to be defined because,on account of its lowness and of the abrupt wall beyond,it was mingled indistinguishably with the perspective of the range.Concealment was made easier from the fact that the ground of the cove was lower than all the surrounding land.Willock now advanced on the cove and found himself presently in a snug retreat that would have filled with delight the heart of the most desperate highwayman,or the most timid settler.On the north was,of course,the towering mountain-wall,broken by the gully in the protection of whose trees one might creep up or down without detection.On the east,the same mountain-wall curved in high protection.In front was the wide irregular island,low,indeed,but happily high enough to shut out a view of the outside world.At the end of this barricade there was a gap,no wider than a wagon-road,along the side of which ran the dry channel of a mountain stream--the continuation of the gully that cut the mountain-wall from top to base--but even this gap was high enough to prevent observation from the plain.
No horsemen could enter the cove save by means of that low trench,cut as by the hand of man in the granite hill,and as Indian horsemen were the only enemies to be dreaded,his watchfulness need be concentrated only on that one point.Nothing like variety,observed Willock cheerfully.
This will do capital for my summer home!I'm going to live like a lord--while I'm living.
He examined the ground and found that it was rich and could be penetrated easily,even to the very foot of the mountain.I'll just get my spade,he remarked,as I ain't got nothing else to do.In deliberate slowness he returned up the divide,and got the spade from his retreat,then brought it to the cove.Selecting a spot near the channel of the dried-up torrent,he began to dig,relieved to find that he did not strike rock.
I guess,he said,stopping to lean on his spade as he stared at the mountain,the earth just got too full of granite and biled over,but was keerful to spew it upwards,so's to save as much ground as it could,while relieving its feelings.
Presently the earth on his blade began to cling from dampness.When I digs a well,he remarked boastingly,what I want is water,and that's what I gets.As soon as it's deep enough I'll wall her up with rocks and take the longest drink that man ever pulled off,that is to say,when it was nothing but common water.They ain't nothing about water to incite you to keep swallowing when you have enough.Of a sudden you just naturally leggo and could drown in it without wanting another drop.That's because it's nature.Art is different.I reckon a nice clean drinking-joint and a full-stocked bar is about the highest art that can stimulate a man.But in nature,you know when you've got enough.
After further digging he added,And I got about enough of THIS!I mean the mountains and the plains and the sand and the wind and the cave and the cove--he wiped away the dripping sweat and looked at the sun.Yes,and of you,too!He dropped the spade,and sat down on the heap of dirt.Oh,Lord,but I'm lonesome!I got plenty to say,but nobody to listen at me.
He clasped his great hands about his knee,and stared sullenly at the surrounding ramparts of red and brown granite,dully noting the fantastic layers,the huge round stones that for ages had been about to roll down into the valley but had never started,and others cut in odd shapes placed one upon another in columns along the perpendicular wall.The sun beat on the long matted hair of his bared head,but the ceaseless wind brought relief from its pelting rays.He,however,was conscious neither of the heat nor of the refreshing touch.
At last he rose slowly to his towering legs and picked up the spade.You're a fool,Brick Willock,he said harshly.Ain't you got that well to dig?And then can't you go for your kaig and bring it here,and carry it back full of fresh water?Dinged if there ain't enough doings in your world to furnish out a daily newspaper!He began to dig,adding in an altered tone:And Brick,HE says--'Nothing ain't come to the worst,as long as you're living,'says Brick!
He was proud of the well when it was completed;the water was cold and soft as it oozed up through clean sand,and the walls of mud-mortised rocks promised permanency.One did not have to penetrate far into the bottom-lands of that cove to find water which for unnumbered years had rushed down the mountainside in time of rain-storms to lie,a vast underground reservoir,for the coming of man.Willock could reach the surface of the well by lying on his stomach and scooping with his long arm.He duly carried out his program,and when the keg was filled with fresh water,it was time for dinner.
After a cold luncheon of sliced boiled ham and baker's bread,he returned to the cove,where he idled away the afternoon under the shade of tall cedar trees whose branches came down to the ground,forming impenetrable pyramids of green.
Stretched out on the short buffalo-grass he watched the white flecks follow one another across the sky;he observed the shadows lengthening from the base of the western arm of the horseshoe till they threatened to swallow up him and his bright speck of world;he looked languidly after the flights of birds,and grinned as he saw the hawks dart into round holes in the granite wall not much larger than their bodies--those mysterious holes perforating the precipice,seemingly bored there by a giant auger.
