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CHAPTER 5
Management’s Social and Ethical
Responsibilities

CHAPTER OBJECTIVES
• Define the term corporate social responsibility (CSR), and specify the four levels in Carroll’s
global CSR pyramid.
• Contrast the classical economic and socioeconomic models of business, and summarize the
arguments for and against CSR.
• Identify and describe the four social responsibility strategies, and explain the concept of
enlightened self-interest.
• Summarize the four practical lessons from business ethics research.
• Distinguish between instrumental and terminal values, and explain their relationship to business
ethics.
• Identify and describe at least four of the ten general ethical principles.

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 Chapter 5: Management’s Social and Ethical Responsibilities 87

• Discuss what management can do to improve business ethics.

OPENING CASE
The Changing Workplace: The Two Faces of Pfizer
• THE BAD: In the largest health care fraud settlement in history – Pfizer paid $2.3 billion to
resolve criminal and civil allegations. $102 million of that will be divided among six
whistleblowers. Half of it going to the first employee to file a whistleblower lawsuit, former
Pfizer sales representative John Kopchinski, who was fired by Pfizer.

• THE GOOD: Free drug program implemented for people who have lost their jobs. Although
this effort demonstrates social responsibility it also was a conscious effort to repair the
company’s damaged public image.

Ask students:
- is Pfizer the standard bearer for social responsibility?
- or are they the corporate bad guy?
- If you worked for Pfizer and you knew they were illegally promoting uses of four of its drugs
would you blow the whistle? Explain why or why not.
- Was Kopchinski’s reward fair and appropriate?
88 Chapter 5: Management’s Social and Ethical Responsibilities

LECTURE OUTLINE
Today it is far less acceptable for businesses to have profit as their only goal.
Managers in all types of organizations are expected to make a wide variety of economic and social
contributions.
I. SOCIAL RESPONSIBILITY: DEFINITION AND PERSPECTIVES
Companies are involved in a wide variety of social programs, many of which have no impact on
their bottom line. These programs include everything from helping to feed the hungry to the arts,
urgan renewal, education reform and environmental protection. Regardless of the program, the key
is for managers to implement social responsibility in an effective and efficient manner.

A. What Does Social Responsibility Involve?

Social responsibility is a relatively new concern in the business community—and the idea is
evolving. Corporate social responsibility (CSR) is “the notion that corporations have an
obligation to constituent groups in society . . . beyond that prescribed by law or union
contract.”
• CSR for Global and Transnational Corporations
Today’s global and transnational companies have four areas of responsibility: economic,
legal, ethical, and philanthropic. This means the global corporation should
o Make a profit consistent with expectations for international business.
o Obey the law of host countries as well as international law.
o Be ethical in its practices, taking host-country and global standards into
consideration.
o Be a good corporate citizen, especially as defined by the host country’s
expectations.
All four responsibilities are intertwined and need to be fulfilled if a company is to be called
socially responsible. However, in the long term, a company must consistently satisfy the
bottom three levels before exercising philanthropic responsibility.
Figure 5.1 shows Carroll’s Global Corporate Responsibility Pyramid.
• CSR Requires Voluntary Action
One key factor in CSR is that the actions taken must be voluntary to qualify as socially
responsible actions – rather than reluctant compliance with new laws or court orders, nor a
reaction to public pressures.
 Chapter 5: Management’s Social and Ethical Responsibilities 89

Annotation 5a
Personal Social Responsibility
Questions:
Would you vote to cancel the party for charity? Explain.
Students’ comments will likely be split just as the survey results were, indicating a clear
difference of opinions. Consider suggesting a compromise. Many organizations have a
holiday party that includes opportunities for employees to donate food and\or money. One
company offers a wide variety of games designed by different departments. Prizes are
donated. Employees who wish to take a chance or participate in the game make a small
donation ($2 or $3). Another company has a silent auction for baked goods prepared by
employees – the proceeds support a scholarship program.
Why do people who unselfishly donate their time and money find it so personally
rewarding?
Although our class discussion about motivation is not covered until chapter…, now is a
good time to introduce some of these concepts. Whether it is to be part of a group, improve
self-esteem or simply feel like you are making a difference in the world. Volunteers from
across the world will share that they get more in return than they give. What a concept to
ponder!
What is your experience (and future plan) as a donor or volunteer?
Various answers. Remind students that volunteering is not only a good thing to do; it may
lead to a job or at least a positive reference. It is of course a great opportunity to learn
new skills, gain experience and have something tangible to add to their resume.

B. What Is the Role of Business in Society?

Is business an economic entity responsible only for making a profit for its stockholders? Or is
it a socioeconomic entity obligated to make both economic and social contributions to society?
• The Classical Economic Model
Adam Smith, father of the classical economic model, believed that an “invisible hand”
promoted the public welfare. Smith believed that the public interest was served best by
individuals pursuing their own self-interests. This model has survived into modern times.
• The Socioeconomic Model
In this model, business is seen as one subsystem among many in a highly interdependent
society. This model recognizes that companies have stakeholders other than their
stockholders. A stakeholder audit allows companies to systematically identify all
parties that could possibly be impacted by the company’s performance (see Figure 5.2).
According to this view, business has an obligation to respond to the needs of all
stakeholders while pursuing a profit.
90 Chapter 5: Management’s Social and Ethical Responsibilities

ETHICS: Character, Courage and Values

Cleaning Up in a Socially Responsible Way
For Discussion:
Why is this unique business strategy an example of the socioeconomic model?
Soap Hope’s annual lending program to non-profits is a perfect example of the
socioeconomic model. Soap Hope is clearly part of an interdependent society.
Their short term investment helps fight poverty which in turn boosts the
community providing economic and social benefits for the greater good –
society. Soap Hope’s sacrifice is simply differing profits for a year. It is
apparent that they feel this is a worthwhile program as they have bigger plans
for the future.

What are the pros and cons of this particular strategy?

The pros are that society at large will benefit from this partnership between
corporations and non-profit organizations. When companies act like good
corporate citizens they are also setting an example for their employees,
customers, and other businesses. From an internal perspective, employees
have a greater sense of loyalty, commitment and pride when their employer
supports social causes. This has a positive impact on corporate culture and
employee retention.
The cons highlighted by investors are that the business loses focus on the
primary mission and profits. The obvious concern is that the company will
allocate resources to the philanthropic cause with potential opportunity costs
impacting the bottom line. Another concern is that corporations are doing the
work that taxpayer dollars should be doing in supporting non-profit
organizations. The challenge is for companies to find the balance. When
companies like UPS leverage their strengths to support a humanitarian effort –
they are providing a great service with efficiency and effectiveness. Logistics
management is what they do every day, by encouraging their employees to
volunteer during disasters the cost is minimal but the positive impact is
significant.

C. Arguments For and Against Corporate Social Responsibility

• Arguments For
• Business is unavoidably involved in social issues.
• Business has the resources to tackle today’s complex societal problems.
• A better society means a better environment for doing business.
• Corporate social action will prevent government intervention.
• Arguments Against
• Profit maximization ensures the efficient use of society’s resources.
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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The well in the
desert
 This ebook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States
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Title: The well in the desert

Author: Adeline Knapp

Release date: June 10, 2022 [eBook #68279]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: The Century Co, 1908

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WELL

IN THE DESERT ***
Transcriber’s Note:
The cover image was created by the transcriber
and is placed in the public domain.
THE WELL IN THE DESERT
BY
ADELINE KNAPP

NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1908
 Copyright, 1908, by
T C C .

Published August, 1908

All rights reserved

THE DE VINNE PRESS

TO

A. L. C.

IN MEMORY OF DESERT DAYS

AND GREEN PASTURES
 BOOK ONE
THE VALLEY OF BACA
 THE WELL IN THE DESERT

CHAPTER I

Blue Gulch was relaxing after the ardors of its working-day. From
the direction of the Cheerful Heart Dance Hall issued sounds of
mirth and festivity, and a weaving fantasy of shadows on its
canvas walls proclaimed to those without that the cheerful hearts
were in executive session.
A man coming furtively along Upper Broadway made a detour
to avoid the bar of light that shone through the open door of the
hall. He passed behind the building, and around the big fandango,
where the trip of feet mingled with the tinkle of a guitar and the
whirr and thump of a wheel of fortune.
“It can’t be anywhere along here,” he muttered, coming back to
the road and pausing to survey the starlit scene.
Blue Gulch had but one street, the two sides of which lay at
different levels, separated by the wide yawn of the gulch itself,
thrusting into the mountain from the desert below. From where
the man stood he commanded a very complete view of the place.
In nearly every house was a light, and the shadows thrown upon
the canvas walls gave a fair clue to the occupations of those within;
so that during the early part of each evening at least neither half of
the town need be in any doubt as to how the other half was living.
The life and gaiety of the community in relaxation seemed to
gather upon the upper plane. Across the gulch Lower Broadway
lay in comparative darkness.
The man drew back again as a couple of shadowy forms came
wavering down the road. One of these carried a lantern, which
hung low at his side, revealing the heavy miners’ boots of the pair,
and casting grotesque shadows up the mountain-side.
“Where’s Westcott? Why ain’t he along?” one asked, as they
passed.
The skulking figure in the shadow strained his ears to listen, one
hand pressed upon his mouth to keep back the cough that would
have betrayed him.
“He’s back at his office, digging,” was the careless response.
“Westcott ain’t a very cheerful cuss.”
The two laughed lightly, and disappeared within the dance-hall.
When they were out of sight the man came forth again, hurrying
past the glowing windows of the Red Light Saloon, stopping
beyond it to muffle with his shapeless hat the cough that took toll
of his strength. He leaned panting against a boulder, waiting to
regain his breath.
The way was more dimly lighted now. He was nearing the civic
center of the place, the one bit of level ground in the gulch. Here, a
faint light showing from one window, was the mining company’s
hospital. Beyond this the man passed a big, barn-like structure of
wood, that announced itself, by a huge, white-lettered sign,
showing faintly in the starlight, as an eating-house. Next it was the
low adobe hotel of the place, and farther on, beyond a dark gap,
was a small building, boasting a door and two windows in its
narrow front.
The visitor regarded this place consideringly. He thought it
more than likely that it was what he sought. Light streamed from
both windows and, stepping close, the prowler looked within.
What he saw was a man writing at a rough pine desk. The room
was not large. One or two chairs, a couch, and some rude shelves,
where a few law books leaned; a small earthen-ware stove, now
glowing with heat, completed its furnishings. The watcher’s eyes
yearned to that stove. He was shivering in the chill autumn night,
and he wore no coat. With a muttered curse he opened the door
and stepped quickly into the room.
The man inside looked up from his writing, peering past the
lamp the better to see his visitor. For a moment he stared,
incredulous, then, as recognition was confirmed, he softly slid a
hand toward one drawer of his desk. The new-comer noted the
movement.
 “You can stow that,” he snarled, scornfully, “I haven’t got any
gun.”
The other’s fingers had already closed upon the handle of a
revolver that lay in the drawer. With the weapon in his hand he
crossed quickly, from one window to the other, and carefully
pulled down the shades. The intruder had stepped into the full
glare of the lamp, and now bent forward, his hands upon the desk.
As he stood thus, gaunt, haggard, panting, he seemed little
calculated to awaken fear. The hands that clutched the table’s edge
were trembling and emaciated, and of a curious, waxy pallor. This
same pallor was in his drawn, sunken face, and from out the
death-like mask of its whiteness the man’s deep-set eyes gazed,
heavy with despair.
“I haven’t got any gun, Westcott,” he repeated. “You needn’t be
afraid. You played a damned, dirty trick on me, three years ago,
but that’s all done with. I ain’t here to throw it up against you; but
I want you to do me a favor.”
The lawyer had turned the key in the lock and stood near the
door, watching him intently, noting the close-cropped head, the
thin, pallid face, the nondescript garments of the wayfarer.
“You managed to escape,” he finally said, slowly.
“Yes, I did.” The man coughed, clutching the table for support.
“I got away last week,” he explained, panting. “Yes—and I stole
the clothes,” with a glance at the sleeves of his rough gray shirt.
“I’m a thief, now, just like you, Westcott.”
The other made an inarticulate sound in his throat.
“We’ll let all that pass,” the intruder said, with a toss of one
gaunt hand. “I’m up to no harm, but I’ve got to have help. I’ve got
out of that hell you left me in at Phoenix; but it won’t do me any
good. I’m dying!”
Another fit of coughing shook him, until he reeled. Westcott
pushed a chair toward him and he sank into it, still gripping the
table.
“I’m dying,” he said again, when the cough had spent itself, “and
I want to get back and die in God’s country.”
Westcott sat down opposite him, still watching him, intently.
“I can’t walk back,” the man went on, “and I ain’t fit to beat it
back. You’re welcome to the fifteen hundred you got off me; but
can’t you—for the love of God, won’t you—give me the price of a
ticket back to Iowa?”
His dull, sunken eyes were akindle, and he leaned forward, an
agony of eagerness in his eyes. The prison-born look of age fell
from him for the moment and it became apparent that he was not
only a young man, but must once have been a comely one, with a
powerful frame.
“I heard you were attorney for the Company here,” he went on,
as Westcott still kept silent. “You ought to be able to do that for
me. You had fifteen hundred of mine.”
The attorney flinched, ever so slightly, then he rose, dropping
the revolver into his coat-pocket, and took a turn about the room.
“I—I wasn’t such a beast as it looks,” he finally said, speaking
with difficulty. “I’ve been ashamed of myself: I meant to stay and
try to clear you. I don’t know how I came to do it; but Jim Texas
swore’t was you; and I lost the money playing faro at Randy
Melone’s.”
The brief glow in the sunken eyes had burned itself out. The
man surveyed Westcott, apparently without interest.
“Jim Texas lied,” he said, apathetically, “and now you’re lying.
You paid some of that money to Raoul Marty for a horse; and you
got away with most of the rest of it in your clothes. You can hear
things, even in jail.” This was said with a weary laugh, in which
was no mirth.
“You don’t always hear ’em straight,” the attorney replied, with
studied gentleness.
“I was ashamed, Barker,” he went on, quickly. “I’ve been sorry
ever since.”
“Then you’ll give me the price of a ticket?” Hope gleamed again,
in the dull eyes. Westcott considered.
“I haven’t got the money here,” he mused; “but I think I can
raise some by to-morrow. How would you get down to the
railroad?”
“I’ll take care o’ that—” another siege of that racking cough.
Barker leaned back in his chair, faint and gasping. Westcott drew a
flask and poured some of its contents into a tin cup. The other
drained it, eagerly.
“That’ll help,” he murmured, handing back the cup. “I ain’t
always so weak as this; but I’ve been hitting the trail for a week,
without much grub.”
“Did anyone see you come in?” Westcott asked, with apparent
irrelevance.
“No. I kept out of sight.”
“Good!” The other nodded. “That’s what you’ll have to keep
doing.”
“I’ve got to go out and see what I can do about that money,” he
continued; “and you’ve got to have something to eat. I guess I’ll
have to lock you in here while I’m gone, in case anyone should
come along. You needn’t be afraid but that I’ll come back,” he
added, as the other looked up, in quick suspicion. “It’s safer so,
and I want you to have something to eat.”
“I sure need it,” was the reply. “Mighty bad.”
“I know you do; I’ll bring it soon’s I can.” Westcott moved
toward the door. “You lay low till I get back.”
“You’re not going back on me?” Barker still studied him.
“Going back on you?” Westcott laughed, shortly.
“Lord!” he exclaimed, “Do you think I didn’t have enough of
that?”
He threw some lumps of coal into the little stove. “I’ll have to
douse the glim,” he explained, “since I’ll be out around town, and
someone might wonder who’s here. You can lie down there.”
He waved a hand toward the couch and Barker nodded.
“I’m pegged out,” he said, wearily. “I’ll just sit here by the fire.
Lord! How long is it since I’ve been warm?”
He drew his chair nearer and bent to the glow. Westcott lowered
the light and blew out the flame.
“I’ll lock the door on the outside,” he said, “And don’t you worry,
Barker: I’ll take care of you. Just trust me.”
“I guess I’ve got to trust you,” was the helpless reply, “I can’t do
anything else.” And Westcott stepped out into the night, locking
the door behind him.
Once outside he walked along the plaza to the head of the gulch
and stood looking down upon the town. The varied sounds of a
mining settlement at night came plainly to his ears. A new dancer
from over the border was making her first appearance at
Garvanza’s that evening, and the Mexicans were gathered in force.
There was a crowd of miners in the Red Light Saloon. He could
hear their voices.
“How I hate it all,” he muttered. “I wish I was out of it!”
The post-office was on Lower Broadway in the Company’s store,
where a single light burned, dimly. Farther down was the school-
house, where the school-teacher labored by day, with the half-
dozen white children of the town, and twice as many young
Papegoes. Behind the gulch, climbing heavenward, verdureless,
copper-ribbed, austere, lay the mountain, where the mines were.
Westcott had been in Blue Gulch for more than a year. He had
drifted out of Phoenix after the Barker affair, glad to get away,
where he was sure no one knew of the matter.
There had been no question about Barker’s guilt. Jim Texas
swore to having seen him knife Lundy. He couldn’t have saved
him if he had stayed, Westcott told himself. He had never
understood why they had not hung the fellow, instead of
sentencing him for life.
“Better have done it outright than to kill him by inches in their
hell of a jail,” he thought.
But now what was to be done with the man? Westcott stood
scowling at a house down the gulch. There was a light inside that
threw upon the canvas side-wall the gigantic figure of a woman,
coughing. It reminded him unpleasantly of Barker.
“Damn the fellow,” he muttered. “Wha’d he come up here for,
anyway? He’ll never live to get back east.” He walked on, turning
up the collar of his coat. “It’s coming winter. The cold’ll kill him.”
Again he stood pondering, while one by one the lights down the
gulch went out. Then he bethought himself of his errand and went
stumbling down Lower Broadway in the dark.
The storekeeper was just closing up, but the young fellow turned
back to wait upon him.
“I won’t keep you more’n a minute, Farthing,” he said, and
proceeded to buy bread and cheese, a tin of meat and a couple of
bottles of beer. A little package of tea was an after-thought.
“Going prospecting, Mr. Westcott?” the clerk asked, as he made
up the packages.
“Maybe,” was the reply.
Westcott was at the door as he spoke. Young Farthing was
putting out the light.
 “Oh, Johnnie,” the attorney said, with the air of just
remembering, “I want to telephone ... ‘long distance.’ I’m afraid
it’ll take some time.” He half hesitated.
The boy looked disappointed; he had planned to get over to the
fandango in time to see the new dancer. He spoke cheerfully
however.
“That’s all right, Mr. Westcott,” he said, and turned up the lamp
again.
“Why can’t I lock up, Johnnie?” Westcott asked; “I’ll bring the
key up to the hotel when I come.”
“If you wouldn’t mind—” Farthing looked relieved,
“Everything’s all right but just turning out the light,” he added.
“All right.” Westcott gave him a little push; “You go on,” he said,
cordially; “I can lock the door as hard as you!”
“I guess that’s true, Mr. Westcott,” the boy laughed, and with a
relieved “good-night,” he departed, as Westcott was turning
toward the telephone-booth.
Half an hour later the attorney was in his own office, boiling
water in a tin pail, on top of the little stove, while Barker, warmed
and cheered, made great inroads upon the bread and cheese and
the tinned meat. Presently Westcott made tea in the pail.
“Seems like old prospecting days, don’t it?” he said with
ostentatious cheerfulness, as he filled the tin cup. “I dare say
you’ve had your share of them?”
“Some.... A-a-h!” Barker drank, blissfully, of the strong, scalding
brew.
“I located a good claim once,” he said, setting down the cup.
“But it was jumped. All I ever got was—”
He paused, in some embarrassment, and changed the subject.
“Great stuff, that tea,” he said, and Westcott refilled the tin cup.
“I’ve done better for you than I hoped to,” he volunteered
presently. “I couldn’t raise the money in the town—too near pay-
day; but I got a pal of mine on the ’phone. He can let me have the
cash, and I’ll get it to-morrow. Don’t you worry, Barker.” He
answered the question, in the other’s eyes, “I’m looking out for you
all right. You don’t need to worry.”
“I’m a pretty sick man,” Barker answered, his white face
flushing. “I know I’m done for; but I want to die in the open.”
 “Don’t you talk about dying.” Westcott went about the place
making it secure for the night. “You’ll be snug as can be here,” he
added, “By seven o’clock to-morrow morning this town’ll be
practically empty. All the men’ll be at the mine. Sime’s going down
to the plain to meet the stage, and the school-teacher’ll be busy.
We’ll get you off in good shape.”
He took some papers from the desk and put them in his pocket.
“I wouldn’t show myself, though,” he said. “Keep the curtains
down, and lay low. Lock the door after me, and take out the key.”
At the last words the man’s look of anxiety vanished.
“All right,” he replied. “I’ll sure lay low. I haven’t slept much in a
week. I’ll be glad enough to take the chance.”
“So long, then,” Westcott said, slipping out.
“So long,” and the key turned in the lock.
 CHAPTER II

Having secured the door, Barker took the key from the lock and
hung his hat upon the knob.
“Don’t want anyone peeking in,” he murmured, as he resumed
his seat by the fire. He was no longer cold, but there was
companionship in its glow.
The meager little office was a palace compared with the cell
from which he had escaped, he thought as he looked about him in
the dim light from the open door of the stove.
“If he plays me any more tricks—” His mind reverted to
Westcott, and the cold sweat stood upon his forehead at the idea
of possible treachery.
“Pshaw!” he muttered. “There’s nothing more he can do. He’s
done it all. God! To think I swore to kill him at sight, and here I
am begging favors of him.”
The angry snarl in his voice changed to a cough, and ended in a
whimper.
“I couldn’t do anything else,” he pleaded, as though arguing
with someone. “I want to get back east. I want to die in the open.
Hell! I was going mad in that hole.”
He rested his head between his fists, torturing himself with
memories of the days before he crossed the Divide, the youngest
chain-man in the surveyors’ gang of a projected new railroad. He
had come from Iowa, and boy-like he sang the praises of his native
state all across the alkali plains, until, in derision, his fellows
dubbed him “the Iowa barker.”
The name stuck. In Nevada he was plain “Barker.” The others
seemed to have forgotten his real name, and as Barker, when he
left the outfit, he drifted down into Arizona. He blessed the easy
transition when the trouble came that fixed the killing of big Dan
Lundy on him. He had kept his real name secret through all that
came after.
What had it all been about? What was he doing here to-night?
Why hadn’t he killed Westcott, instead of sitting here by his fire?
He passed a wavering hand before his eyes. Oh, yes. Now he
remembered. Westcott was going to send him east—to God’s
country. Meanwhile, he was dead for sleep. He caught himself, as
he lurched in his chair, and rising heavily, he threw himself upon
the couch.
It was past noon when he woke. The sun lighted the yellow
curtains; the door stood open, and Westcott bent over him,
shaking him by the shoulder.
“Barker! Barker!” the attorney called.
“Barker! Wake up! Time to get out of this. I’ve got a chance to
send you down to the railroad.”
By degrees he struggled to consciousness, and sat up. Westcott
had brought him a big cup of steaming coffee.
“Drink this,” he said, not unkindly.
“My friend came up with the money,” he went on, as Barker
drank, sitting sidewise on the couch. “He’s going to take you down
in his buggy. He’ll fix you up all right.”
Barker was still dazed with sleep. His ears rang, and the lawyer’s
voice sounded strange and far away. The coffee made him feel
better. It soothed the cough that had racked him the moment he
sat up.
“Now eat some grub,” Westcott said.
He had brought food from the hotel. Barker was still too far off
to wonder at this. He had no desire for food, but he ate,
obediently.
Westcott, meantime, had gone outside. In front of the hotel
stood a big, rangy bay horse, hitched to a light road-wagon. Near
the outfit lounged a tall, determined-looking man, who came
forward when he saw the attorney.
“I’ve got to be getting a move on soon,” he said. “It’ll be late
night, as ’tis, before we get there.”
“He’ll be ready in the shake of a horn,” the other replied.
“Say, Frank,” he continued. “He don’t know who you are. I’ve let
on you’re a friend of mine, going to take him down. Let him think
that till you get out of town.”
“Must be a dead easy one,” the man addressed as Frank said.
“Well, you see,” Westcott laughed, nervously, “I doped him
pretty well last night—the poor devil coughed so,” he added, in
explanation, and the deputy sheriff gave a grunt that might mean
anything. It brought a flush of embarrassment to Westcott’s face.
 “Come on,” he said, shortly, turning toward his office. The
deputy climbed into his buggy and drove after him.
“Got to hurry, Barker,” Westcott called, opening the door.
He escorted his charge briskly outside.
“This is Mr. Arnold,” he mumbled, beside the wagon. “A friend
of mine that’ll see you fixed all right.”
The man holding the reins scrutinized Barker closely as the
latter climbed up beside him.
“All right,” he decided, finally, speaking to Westcott, and
handed the attorney a folded paper.
“That’s what you were after,” he said, briefly. “So long.”
A word to the bay colt and they were swinging down Upper
Broadway at a pace that made Barker catch his breath as he noted
the narrow road, and the steep cañon-side.
“It’d sure be a long fall,” his companion said, answering his
look, “But we ain’t goin’ to take it. You can bank on the colt. He’s
sure-footed as a deer.”
“I ain’t afraid,” Barker responded. The fresh, sweet air was
beginning to clear his brain and he sat up straighter, a touch of
color coming into his death-like face. The other man avoided his
glance, giving all his attention to the colt, who was swiftly putting
distance between them and the town. The exigencies of the steep,
rough road made such attention necessary and neither man spoke
again until they had traversed the narrow pass, and were out of
the gulch. A sudden turn of the way brought them among the
foothills, the broad, yellow expanse of cactus-dotted plain before
them.
“Doesn’t seem as far as it did when I footed it in last night,”
Barker said at last, with an attempt to smile, and Arnold nodded.
The bay colt was a good traveler, and they were on the level now,
following the road that wound its spiritless, grey way among the
cacti. The colt took it in long, free strides, that promised to get
them somewhere by daylight.
“Good horse you got there,” Barker said, with a country-bred
man’s interest in animals. “Mighty good shoulders.”
“You bet!” was the deputy’s hearty response. “Good for all day,
too.”
“I raised him myself,” he went on, “and he’s standard bred, too,
Daystar, out’n an Alcantara mare.” He spoke with proper pride, as
the owner of a good horse may.
“They raise some fine stock back in Iowa,” Barker remarked,
and his companion’s fount of speech seemed suddenly to run dry.
Barker waited, expectant, for some little time.
“Where are we going to hit the railroad?” He asked, at last.
“The railroad?” Arnold looked puzzled.
“Westcott said you’d land me where I could get the train east,”
the other explained. “He said you had the price of a ticket for me.
It’s all on the level, ain’t it?” he demanded, his voice going higher.
“Oh—Oh! yes, yes! It’s all fixed. Don’t you worry none.” The
bronze of the deputy’s face crimsoned.
“Don’t you worry none,” he repeated, with a glance at the sky.
An ominous cloud lowered, overhead. The sun was hidden, and
the air had grown chill. A fit of coughing had followed Barker’s
flash of excitement, and he crouched in his seat, shivering slightly.
“Look here,” Arnold exclaimed, “you ain’t dressed warm
enough. They’s some kind of weather breeding.”
He reached beneath the wagon-seat and pulled forth his own
coat.
“Put this on,” he directed. “I’ve got my sweater on, and don’t
need it.”
Barker pushed it back.
“I’m all right,” he said. “You’ll need that yourself.”
“You do what I tell you,” the deputy insisted. “Put it over your
shoulders. The wind’s at your back.”
He thrust the garment across his companion’s wasted shoulders
and Barker drew the sleeves across his chest.
As he did so his hand touched something hard, under one lapel.
He glanced down at it, and started.
“What’s that?” he cried, turning the metal badge up for closer
inspection.
A groan of horror escaped him as he recognized the object.
He sprang to his feet, his long, gaunt hands reaching for the
deputy’s throat. Arnold swept him back with one motion of his
powerful arm.
“Don’t you do anything like that,” he said, with rough kindness.
“You’d be just a skeeter if I took hold of you, and I don’t want to.
Suffering snakes!” he pleaded, “Don’t look like that! I’m sorry,
man; by Heaven, I’ve hated this job like blue poison, ever since I
laid eyes on you.”
The words died away in his throat before the dumb misery in
the other man’s face. The wasted figure was slumped forward in
an abandon of despair. All the man’s pride and courage died in the
face of his fearful disappointment.
“Oh, God! Oh, God!” he moaned. “And I thought I was going to
die in the open.”
He turned to the deputy, a sudden hope lighting his woe.
“Let me get out,” he begged. “Let me get out right here. I can’t
get anywheres: I’m bound to die; but it’ll be out in the open. Please
let me out.”
“I can’t.” The words came through Arnold’s set teeth.
“Why not? I never killed Dan Lundy. Before God, I never laid a
finger on him.” Barker spoke fast and thick, in his eagerness.
“I went to his shack and found him there, knifed to death. And
Jim Texas swore he saw me do it. Swore it, mind you; when Hart
Dowling and I both knew Texas had threatened Lundy time and
again.”
A fit of coughing interrupted him, but he went on as soon as he
could, his hoarse voice breaking now and then.
“And Westcott came sneaking ’round to see what there was in it
for him. He was just starting in then, and I’d heard he was a smart
fellow. I told him of the fifteen hundred dollars dust I had hid in
my shack. He was to find Dowling. Dowling ’d gone up into
Wyoming. Westcott was to get him down here as a witness. And
the damned coyote was to have my fifteen hundred.”
Again the racking cough, and his voice trailed off in a choking
struggle for breath. He was shrieking when he continued.
“And Westcott took the money! Took it out of my shack, and
never came near me again. Left me to die. They’d ha’ hung me,
sure, if some of the jury hadn’t believed Jim Texas lied.”
The deputy’s face was twisted with pity and shame; the man was
so horribly broken.
“They’s a flask in the pocket o’ that coat,” he said. “Take a pull;
it’ll brace you up.”
“I don’t want it,” Barker snarled. “It chokes me more.”
 He had drawn the coat about him, the sleeves tied across his
chest.
“And Westcott went back on me this time, too.” He took up the
pitiful tale again. “He couldn’t be satisfied, the devil, with what
he’d done. He had to do it over. But what for? What for? I say? I
never did him dirt.”
The deputy gave a start of surprise.
“Why Westcott got—” he began, then pity kept him silent. If
Barker had not guessed he would not tell him.
“Westcott ... hell!” He spat savagely out upon the desert, shaking
his head with pity, as he glanced again at the huddled figure.
“Westcott’s a damned side-winder,” he muttered.
They were descending into an arroyo, once the bed of a creek;
dry, now, for more than a year. The road crossed it, here.
“We’re going to get our weather, quick,” the deputy said, as he
noticed that the bottom of the arroyo held tiny pools of water.
Even as he spoke a little stream came trickling down.
“It’s us for the level! Quick!” he shouted, urging the bay.
In an instant darkness was upon them. A sudden flash of steely
blue rent the sky; almost with it a quick roll of thunder was all
about them and a bellowing rush of water came tearing along the
arroyo.
The bay colt squealed with terror, plunging sidewise, heedless of
whip and voice. The deputy tried to turn him back to where the
bank sloped, but already they were sweeping along with the
torrent.
“A cloudburst,” Arnold shrieked, and with the words he was
wrested from his seat.
The shafts of the light vehicle snapped short at the gear. The
colt, plunging, open-mouthed, was hurled forward in a fearful
somersault, and went under, just as the wagon and its remaining
occupant rolled over and over, as a boulder might roll, in the
churn of maddened water.

It was far into the night when, amid a matted drift, half-way up
one bank of the arroyo, something stirred, faintly. Caught in a web
of debris, and a tangle of mesquite roots that thrust far out from
the soil, a man strove feebly to disentangle his head from a
smother of something that enwrapped it. When at last he partly
succeeded he looked up at the calm stars, lamping the sky in
solemn splendor. Below him he could still hear the rush of water,
but above all was peaceful.
Long he lay, more dead than alive, trying to remember what had
happened. By the bright starlight he managed to make out that the
body of the light wagon had caught upon an out-thrust web of
mesquite roots. He was lying on his side in the wagon box, one
arm thrust, to the shoulder, through something that he could not
see. About his neck and head was a tangle of cloth which he made
out to be the deputy’s coat, and a long thong of leather, probably
one of the harness reins. This was wound, as well, about what
remained of one of the seat braces.
Slowly, by agonizing degrees, the man began to work himself
loose from the tangle. Then he discovered that the thing binding
his shoulder was the strap of a horse’s nose-bag, and the bag itself.
It was caught over a long, splintered fragment of the reach, which
had broken through the bottom of the wagon box. The bag seemed
to be about half full of oats.
Inch by inch he cleared himself, and laying hold upon the
mesquite roots, rose slowly, until he stood up. Every movement
was pain, but he persisted doggedly, climbing little by little up the
bank, clinging now to a root of mesquite, now to a point of rock,
pausing for breath, or to ease the strain upon his tortured muscles.
At last he grasped the trunk of a mesquite and dragged himself out
upon the desert, where he fell helpless upon the sand.
 CHAPTER III

The shadowy bulk of distant mountains changed to pale blue as

the purple of night slowly lightened. The stars faded, one by one,
and a spectral moon slipped wearily down the sky. Beyond the
scant mesquite fringing the arroyo the desert lay still and gray, like
a leaden sea.
The man woke, and moved slightly, groaning as his wrenched
and stiffened body protested. Consciousness strengthened, and he
struggled to his knees to stare about him. The chill of early
morning had him by the bones, and he shook in its grip. After a
little he got to his feet and tried, painfully, to swing his arms.
Away westward a subtle hint of color crept across the pale sky,
heralding a coming radiance in the east; but it brought no sense of
comfort.
“There’s no one left alive but me,” the man whispered, as his
gaze took in the awful solitude. “No one but me, Gabriel Gard!”
The sound of that name, spoken all unconsciously, made him
start, and look furtively about. The loneliness of the plain had
betrayed his jealously guarded secret. Then his mood changed.
“I’ve a right to die with it, at least,” he muttered. “They can’t
steal that from me. Barker’s dead, already. Gabriel Gard goes next.
Hear that, Gabriel? You go next. Y-a-a-h.... God!”
A sudden agony of pain shook him as he began to cough. Every
muscle in his body was sore. Then, as the racking grew less, he
stood transfixed, staring across the desert.
A crimson glow from the coming sunrise flushed far across the
eastern sky, and coming toward him, touched by its glory, was a
figure that his astonished brain sought to define.
It was no mirage. He knew the marks of that supreme cheat of
the desert. This was no trick of refraction or of reflection. He saw,
as a man sees, this creature silently, steadily drawing near.
It was a strangely familiar shape; vague, uncouth, incredible, it
seemed; yet he recognized it. He recognized the slender, shuffling
legs, the swinging gait, the mis-shapen body, the ungainly,
crooked neck and high held head; but why, in the name of reason,
should a camel be coming to him, out of nowhere?
 Nearer and nearer the creature drew, the uncouth form now a
wonder of azure and crimson, as the light became stronger, and
still the man gazed, his bewildered mind refusing to accept the
testimony of his eyes.
He was filled with awe. It was true, then, what old prospectors
had lately declared, that this solitary wanderer was still in the
desert, sole survivor of the old Jeff Davis caravan.[1] Old man
Dickson, and again young Bennett, swore they had seen it.
Dickson told, indeed, of having had the creature about his camp
for nearly a week.
1. When Jefferson Davis was Secretary of War he imported a caravan of camels into
the desert, to carry supplies for the army. The creatures stampeded the army mules,
whenever they appeared, and the soldiers took to shooting them, on the sly. In time so
many were killed that not enough remained to form a caravan, so the survivors were
turned loose in the desert. Here they were hunted by tourists, who shot them for “sport,”
until it was supposed that all had perished. It is known now, however, that one, at least,
survives. This solitary one still wanders about the desert, and the writer knows of more
than one prospector who has encountered it, very recently.
On came the camel, looking neither to the right nor the left, its
shuffling stride getting it over the ground with curious swiftness.
When it was very near it stopped, under the mesquites, and
seemed to wait for the man to approach. Recovered somewhat
from his amazement, Gabriel Gard drew nearer and, reaching out
a tentative hand, touched the creature’s neck.
The animal neither started nor flinched, but began cropping
beans from the mesquite trees, quite as if the man were not there.
Gard, noting the action, became aware that he was himself faint
with hunger.
On the desert, where he had thrown it in rising, lay the deputy’s
coat, and tangled with it Gard found his own canteen. He took this
as a good omen.
“I may need you, yet,” he whispered, as he took it up.
In one pocket of the coat was a nickle watch, made fast by a
leather thong, to a buttonhole. Another contained the deputy’s
pipe, some loose tobacco, and a water-tight box, in which were
fourteen matches. Gard counted them, carefully.
He turned to the other side-pocket, with but faint hope that the
flask which he had scorned the day before would be in it yet.
It was there, however, and beside it, in a greasy, crushed packet,
a big beef sandwich. The deputy, accustomed to provide against
long rides in the desert, had secured this before leaving the hotel.
 The man ate it eagerly, and took a swallow from the flask. The
food, and the fiery liquor, warmed him, and revived his courage.
In the coat’s inner pocket were papers, a worn memorandum
book, an envelop covered with figures, another, longer one,
containing a document. As Gard turned them over a postal-card
fell to the desert.
He picked it up. On the back were a picture, and some printing.
The man read the latter through before he realized what the card
was for. It published his escape from jail, and the fact that five
hundred dollars reward was offered for his capture.
Now he remembered the deputy’s unfinished sentence, and
knew why Westcott had betrayed him.
Westcott had got that reward! He had sold him back to death as
he had sold him before. God! Why could he not have had his
fingers upon that lying throat just once? He would have found
strength for the job that needed doing!
He stretched forth his wasted, jail-bleached hands, and
regarded them, snarling. Then he raised them, shaking them at
the sky.
“I’ll live to do it yet! Do you hear?” he shrieked, “I say I will
live!”
He beat the desert air with his clenched fists.
“God—devil—whatever you are that runs this hellish world,
you’ve got to let me live. I’ll make that infernal side-winder wish
he could hide in hell’s mouth, before I die!”
The torrent of his rage was stemmed by a vicious attack of that
racking cough. It tore his chest, and flecked his lips with blood.
When it was over he lay upon the sand for a long time, sobbing the
dry, anguished sobs of a man’s helpless woe.
The sun, rising above the distant mountains, shone red upon
him. The camel left the mesquite’s thin shade for the warmer light
and the pad of its soft feet aroused Gard. He must not let the
creature get away.
He rose, painfully, and went to it, considering the brute
carefully. A plan was dawning in his brain. He took the strap that
served him for a belt, and buckled it around the camel’s neck. The
animal followed him, docile as a sheep, when he led it back to the
mesquite. Then he bethought himself of the oats, in the horse’s
bag, below.
 Going to the edge of the arroyo he could see it in the wreck of
the road-wagon, and he made his way painfully down to it. As he
was clambering back he noticed that the back spring of the light
rig still clung to it by a single bolt. A slight wrench brought it away,
and he secured it, with a vague feeling that it might prove useful.
The full horror of his position was becoming clear to him. He
was alone in the desert, without food or weapons. He put the
thought away, summoning all his faculties for the need of the
moment.
The camel was indifferent to the oats, turning from them to the
mesquite, after a tentative investigation. With his belt and the
harness rein, Gard proceeded to fashion a sort of rude hackamore,
which he put over the creature’s head. The great beast, as soon as
it was adjusted, settled itself, as by instinct, in an attitude of
waiting, while Gard proceeded to fill his canteen and to gather
quantities of mesquite beans, bestowing them in the feed bag, and
in the pockets of Arnold’s coat.
He threw the coat across the camel’s back, the buggy-spring and
the bag secured by its knotted sleeves. Then he took the leading
strap in his hand, spoke to the animal, and they moved out upon
the desert.
Gard had no idea in which direction it was best to go, but he
argued that the camel knew the plain, and its fastnesses. For
himself, he had but one thought—to hide, to rest, to gather
strength for vengeance. At that thought he stifled the cough that
rose in his throat.
Once they were started he let the strap hang loose and gradually
fell behind. The camel went forward a few paces in the direction
ahead of them, but feeling no guidance, gradually deflected its
course toward the west. Gard followed every movement eagerly,
until presently they were going forward at a steady pace, as
travelers with a definite aim.
The sun was well up now, and its beams warmed the man’s
chilled, sore body. The desert was no longer gray, but a glowing
yellow. Even the air was warm-hued, suffusing the landscape with
a roseate loveliness that yet seemed less of life than of death.
Everywhere were the desert growths, travesties of vegetation,
twisted, grotesque, ghostly gray and pale green in hues. A
profound stillness, insistent, oppressive, was upon everything. The
yellow sand, the glowing air, the cloudless dome of the sky, the
far-off mountains, all seemed to soak up sound. The world lay
hushed in fierce, tense quiet, as though waiting the appearance of
some savage portent.
The camel did not hasten. Gard, walking beside it, had a feeling
that the creature was very old. Its eyes were bright, its coat silky
and fine, but deep under the hair’s soft luxuriance the man’s
fingers felt the skin, wrinkled and folded over shrunken muscles.
But there was neither feebleness nor hesitation in the forward
progress of the desert pilot. It moved forward with a sort of
inexorableness, its padded feet making no sound on the hard
sand, its gaze bent steadily ahead, its inscrutable visage wearing
ever, a look of centuries-old scorn for all things made.
They passed a huge bull-snake sunning upon a rock, and here
and there a silent bird flitted to or from its home in some thorn-
guarded cholla. Once a coyote tossed lightly across their vision, a
blown gray feather along the horizon, but no other signs of animal
life stirred the death-like plain.
The sand grew warmer in the sun’s rays, till permeating heat
radiated from it and hung over it everywhere, a palpable,
shimmering mist of lavender and gold, between earth and air. By
mid-forenoon the sun’s rays were oppressive, and they halted in
the shadow of a giant suhuaro.
The camel, when the man released the leading-strap, lowered
itself slowly to rest, doubling down its legs like the shutting of a
jack-knife, and settling upon the sand with the curious, sighing
grunt of old age.
Gard, in the meantime, set about the preparation of a meal. He
shelled a handful of tree beans and crushed them between two
stones, mixing them with water from his canteen into a sort of
paste, which he ate. The suhuaro’s fruit was yet hanging upon its
great branches, dried, somewhat, by the autumn sun and wind,
but palatable and nutritious still. Gard found a long pole, once
part of the frame of another giant cactus, and with this succeeded
in knocking down some of the fig-like growths.
When he had eaten them he stretched himself upon the sand,
filled the deputy’s pipe, and lighted it with one of the precious
matches. The unwonted luxury brought him comfort, and ease of
mind. He smoked slowly, making the most of it in delicious
relaxation, his head in the shade, his weary, sick body basking in
the heat of desert and sunlight.
 Lying thus there presently spread out before his eyes the sudden
vision of a great, island-dotted sea. The surface of the water
dimpled and sparkled in the sun; the islands shone jewel-like with
verdure, an exquisite suggestion of rich color was over it all.
His eye was not deceived, though his mind half accepted the
vision. He knew that it was a mirage, but he lay for a long time
watching its changing beauty, a half-amused sense of superiority
to illusion ministering pleasantly to his pride. The scene was so
very like what it seemed to be.
Suddenly, from the surface of the sea rose a monstrous thing,
huge, formidable, portentous, and endowed with motion. Gard
turned upon his side, with a gasp. The mystic sea still wavered in
the distance, but the shape was no part of it.
An instant he studied it, then sank back with a sigh of relief. The
apparition, upon scrutiny, had resolved itself into a little wild
burro, perhaps a quarter of a mile away, passing across the face of
the mirage. It was such a germane little shape, this familiar of the
desert, that he was cheered by the sight of it. The next instant he
noted a tarantula, hairy, vicious, glaring at him from a tiny
eminence of sand.
Acting upon impulse, Gard hurled at it the rounded stone with
which he had crushed the mesquite beans. The missile struck the
sand close beside the tarantula and the huge spider sprang upon it
in a frenzy of stupid ferocity. The man laughed silently, a laugh not
good to see.
A shadow floated across the plain, and then another. The man
glanced upward, to see three or four great black forms circling
against the blue.
“You would, eh?” he shrieked, springing to his feet. “Yah! Not
yet, you devils! I’m not dead yet!”
He shook his fist skyward at the huge, waiting birds.
“I’m alive yet!” he yelled. “You don’t get me yet; not till I’ve had
my meat.”
The cough seized him, and ere it let go its hold the disappointed
vultures, with never a stroke of their wide wings, faded into the
skyey depths.
But Gard had no heart to linger further. The sight of the desert
scavengers had shaken him sorely, he hastened to rouse his
strange fellow, and soon the pair were again threading that weary
way from nowhere to the unknown.
 All day they had moved steadily mountainward, and now they
began to draw nearer the range that ever since dawn had reared a
jagged line along the horizon. Gard had not known whether they
would reach the mountains that day. One does not predicate
distances in the desert. They may be long, or short; the lying air
gives no clue.
But as the afternoon shadows were turning to mauve and blue,
what had for hours looked like sloping foothills, leading gently
toward further heights, suddenly reared itself before them in a
long stretch of high, perpendicular wall.
Straight toward it the camel went, never pausing or looking
around at the man beside him, and when another forward step
would have found their progress barred, the creature swerved to
the left, to enter a narrow pass that appeared as if by magic in the
seemingly unbroken wall.
Now the way wound upward along a dry wash, climbing almost
imperceptibly, at first, growing steeper, by degrees, though at no
time a sharp ascent. The shadows closed in upon them, and the air
grew chill, but still the camel walked on, and beside him, clinging,
now, in his weakness, to the animal’s long hair, toiled the man.
More and more often he paused for breath, his lungs tortured by
the pace. He was faint with fatigue, chilled by the shadow-cooled
air, but a drink from the flask gave him brief strength, and he
struggled on.
An hour, and they were well within the mountains. The way
wound now among greasewood and scrub oaks, with only here
and there a cactus. The chaparral drew dense, and Gard could
hear birds calling in its depths.
The trail began to widen, and patches of coarse grasses cropped
out, here and there. The altitude was not particularly great, but it
was beginning to tell upon the man when his strange guide halted
in a little open glade, where the wash ended abruptly.
Night was falling, and Gard could make out very little save that
the forest growth closed in the glade on all sides. Overhead he
could just get a glimpse of the purpling sky, where the stars were
already out. Off at one side he could see these reflected in water,
and he could hear, as well, the gentle splash of a stream.
The camel stood beside him, wearily patient until, lifting a hand,
he removed its load and slipped the hackamore from its head.