Zane Grey (28 page)

Hare wrung the cold hand clasping his so feebly. "No! Dave, no!" Then he
fled from the room. For an hour he stood on the porch waiting in dumb
misery. George and Zeke came noiselessly out, followed by their father.

"It's all over, Hare." Another tragedy had passed by this man of the
desert, and left his strength unshaken, but his deadly quiet and the
gloom of his iron face were more terrible to see than any grief.

"Father, and you, Hare, come out into the road," said George.

Another motionless form lay beyond Chance and Culver. It was that of a
slight man, flat on his back, his arms wide, his long black hair in the
dust. Under the white level brow the face had been crushed into a bloody
curve.

"Dene!" burst from Hare, in a whisper.

"Killed by a horse!" exclaimed August Naab. "Ah! What horse?"

"Silvermane!" replied George.

"Who rode my horse—tell me—quick!" cried Hare, in a frenzy.

"It was Mescal. Listen. Let me tell you how it all happened. I was out
at the forge when I heard a bunch of horses coming up the lane. I wasn't
packing my gun, but I ran anyway. When I got to the house there was Dave
facing Snap, Dene, and a bunch of rustlers. I saw Chance at first, but
not Holderness. There must have been twenty men.

"'I came after Mescal, that's what,' Snap was saying.

"'You can't have her,' Dave answered.

"'We'll shore take her, an' we want Silvermane, too,' said Dene.

"'So you're a horse-thief as well as a rustler?' asked Dave.

"'Naab, I ain't in any mind to fool. Snap wants the girl, an' I want
Silvermane, an' that damned spy that come back to life.'

"Then Holderness spoke from the back of the crowd: 'Naab, you'd better
hurry, if you don't want the house burned!'

"Dave drew and Holderness fired from behind the men. Dave fell, raised
up and shot Chance and Culver, then dropped his gun.

"With that the women in the house began to scream, and Mescal ran out
saying she'd go with Snap if they'd do no more harm.

"'All right,' said Snap, 'get a horse, hurry—hurry!'

"Then Dene dismounted and went toward the corral saying, 'I shore want
Silvermane.'

"Mescal reached the gate ahead of Dene. 'Let me get Silvermane. He's
wild; he doesn't know you; he'll kick you if you go near him.' She
dropped the bars and went up to the horse. He was rearing and snorting.
She coaxed him down and then stepped up on the fence to untie him. When
she had him loose she leaped off the fence to his back, screaming as she
hit him with the halter. Silvermane snorted and jumped, and in three
jumps he was going like a bullet. Dene tried to stop him, and was
knocked twenty feet. He was raising up when the stallion ran over him.
He never moved again. Once in the lane Silvermane got going—Lord! how
he did run! Mescal hung low over his neck like an Indian. He was gone in
a cloud of dust before Snap and the rustlers knew what had happened.
Snap came to first and, yelling and waving his gun, spurred down the
lane. The rest of the rustlers galloped after him."

August Naab placed a sympathetic hand on Hare's shaking shoulder.

"You see, lad, things are never so bad as they seem at first. Snap might
as well try to catch a bird as Silvermane."

"MESCAL'S far out in front by this time. Depend on it, Hare," went on
Naab. "That trick was the cunning Indian of her. She'll ride Silvermane
into White Sage to-morrow night. Then she'll hide from Snap. The Bishop
will take care of her. She'll be safe for the present in White Sage.
Now we must bury these men. To-morrow—my son. Then—"

"What then?" Hare straightened up.

Unutterable pain darkened the flame in the Mormon's gaze. For an instant
his face worked spasmodically, only to stiffen into a stony mask. It was
the old conflict once more, the never-ending war between flesh and
spirit. And now the flesh had prevailed.

"The time has come!" said George Naab.

"Yes," replied his father, harshly.

A great calm settled over Hare; his blood ceased to race, his mind to
riot; in August Naab's momentous word he knew the old man had found
himself. At last he had learned the lesson of the desert—to strike
first and hard.

"Zeke, hitch up a team," said August Naab. "No—wait a moment. Here
comes Piute. Let's hear what he has to say."

Piute appeared on the zigzag cliff-trail, driving a burro at dangerous
speed.

"He's sighted Silvermane and the rustlers," suggested George, as the
shepherd approached.

Naab translated the excited Indian's mingling of Navajo and Piute
languages to mean just what George had said. "Snap ahead of riders—
Silvermane far, far ahead of Snap—running fast—damn!"

"Mescal's pushing him hard to make the sand-strip," said George.

"Piute—three fires to-night—Lookout Point!" This order meant the
execution of August Naab's hurry-signal for the Navajos, and after he had
given it, he waved the Indian toward the cliff, and lapsed into a silence
which no one dared to break.

Naab consigned the bodies of the rustlers to the famous cemetery under
the red wall. He laid Dene in grave thirty-one. It was the grave that
the outlaw had promised as the last resting-place of Dene's spy. Chance
and Culver he buried together. It was noteworthy that no Mormon rites
were conferred on Culver, once a Mormon in good standing, nor were any
prayers spoken over the open graves.

What did August Naab intend to do? That was the question in Hare's mind
as he left the house. It was a silent day, warm as summer, though the
sun was overcast with gray clouds; the birds were quiet in the trees;
there was no bray of burro or clarion-call of peacock, even the hum of
the river had fallen into silence. Hare wandered over the farm and down
the red lane, brooding over the issue. Naab's few words had been full of
meaning; the cold gloom so foreign to his nature, had been even more
impressive. His had been the revolt of the meek. The gentle, the
loving, the administering, the spiritual uses of his life had failed.

Hare recalled what the desert had done to his own nature, how it had bred
in him its impulse to fight, to resist, to survive. If he, a stranger of
a few years, could be moulded in the flaming furnace of its fiery life,
what then must be the cast of August Naab, born on the desert, and
sleeping five nights out of seven on the sands for sixty years?

The desert! Hare trembled as he grasped all its meaning. Then he slowly
resolved that meaning. There were the measureless distances to narrow
the eye and teach restraint; the untrodden trails, the shifting sands,
the thorny brakes, the broken lava to pierce the flesh; the heights and
depths, unscalable and unplumbed. And over all the sun, red and burning.

The parched plants of the desert fought for life, growing far apart,
sending enormous roots deep to pierce the sand and split the rock for
moisture, arming every leaf with a barbed thorn or poisoned sap, never
thriving and ever thirsting.

The creatures of the desert endured the sun and lived without water, and
were at endless war. The hawk had a keener eye than his fellow of more
fruitful lands, sharper beak, greater spread of wings, and claws of
deeper curve. For him there was little to eat, a rabbit now, a rock-rat
then; nature made his swoop like lightning and it never missed its aim.
The gaunt wolf never failed in his sure scent, in his silent hunt. The
lizard flicked an invisible tongue into the heart of a flower; and the
bee he caught stung with a poisoned sting. The battle of life went to
the strong.

So the desert trained each of its wild things to survive. No eye of the
desert but burned with the flame of the sun. To kill or to escape death-
-that was the dominant motive. To fight barrenness and heat—that was
stern enough, but each creature must fight his fellow.

What then of the men who drifted into the desert and survived? They must
of necessity endure the wind and heat, the drouth and famine; they must
grow lean and hard, keen-eyed and silent. The weak, the humble, the
sacrificing must be winnowed from among them. As each man developed he
took on some aspect of the desert—Holderness had the amber clearness of
its distances in his eyes, its deceit in his soul; August Naab, the
magnificence of the desert-pine in his giant form, its strength in his
heart; Snap Naab, the cast of the hawk-beak in his face, its cruelty in
his nature. But all shared alike in the common element of survival—
ferocity. August Naab had subdued his to the promptings of a Christ-like
spirit; yet did not his very energy, his wonderful tirelessness, his will
to achieve, his power to resist, partake of that fierceness? Moreover,
after many struggles, he too had been overcome by the desert's call for
blood. His mystery was no longer a mystery. Always in those moments of
revelation which he disclaimed, he had seen himself as faithful to the
desert in the end.

Hare's slumbers that night were broken. He dreamed of a great gray horse
leaping in the sky from cloud to cloud with the lightning and the thunder
under his hoofs, the storm-winds sweeping from his silver mane. He
dreamed of Mescal's brooding eyes. They were dark gateways of the desert
open only to him, and he entered to chase the alluring stars deep into
the purple distance. He dreamed of himself waiting in serene confidence
for some unknown thing to pass. He awakened late in the morning and
found the house hushed. The day wore on in a repose unstirred by breeze
and sound, in accord with the mourning of August Naab. At noon a solemn
procession wended its slow course to the shadow of the red cliff, and as
solemnly returned.

Then a long-drawn piercing Indian whoop broke the midday hush. It
heralded the approach of the Navajos. In single-file they rode up the
lane, and when the falcon-eyed Eschtah dismounted before his white
friend, the line of his warriors still turned the corner of the red wall.
Next to the chieftain rode Scarbreast, the grim war-lord of the Navajos.
His followers trailed into the grove. Their sinewy bronze bodies, almost
naked, glistened wet from the river. Full a hundred strong were they, a
silent, lean-limbed desert troop.

"The White Prophet's fires burned bright," said the chieftain. "Eschtah
is here."

"The Navajo is a friend," replied Naab. "The white man needs counsel and
help. He has fallen upon evil days."

"Eschtah sees war in the eyes of his friend."

"War, chief, war! Let the Navajo and his warriors rest and eat. Then we
shall speak."

A single command from the Navajo broke the waiting files of warriors.
Mustangs were turned into the fields, packs were unstrapped from the
burros, blankets spread under the cottonwoods. When the afternoon waned
and the shade from the western wall crept into the oasis, August Naab
came from his cabin clad in buckskins, with a large blue Colt swinging
handle outward from his left hip. He ordered his sons to replenish the
fire which had been built in the circle, and when the fierce-eyed Indians
gathered round the blaze he called to his women to bring meat and drink.

Hare's unnatural calmness had prevailed until he saw Naab stride out to
front the waiting Indians. Then a ripple of cold passed over him. He
leaned against a tree in the shadow and watched the gray-faced giant
stalking to and fro before his Indian friends. A long while he strode in
the circle of light to pause at length before the chieftains and to break
the impressive silence with his deep voice.

"Eschtah sees before him a friend stung to his heart. Men of his own
color have long injured him, yet have lived. The Mormon loved his
fellows and forgave. Five sons he laid in their graves, yet his heart
was not hardened. His first-born went the trail of the fire-water and is
an outcast from his people. Many enemies has he and one is a chief. He
has killed the white man's friends, stolen his cattle, and his water.
To-day the white man laid another son in his grave. What thinks the
chief? Would he not crush the scorpion that stung him?"

The old Navajo answered in speech which, when translated, was as
stately as the Mormon's.

"Eschtah respects his friend, but he has not thought him wise. The White
Prophet sees visions of things to come, but his blood is cold. He asks
too much of the white man's God. He is a chief; he has an eye like the
lightning, an arm strong as the pine, yet he has not struck. Eschtah
grieves. He does not wish to shed blood for pleasure. But Eschtah's
friend has let too many selfish men cross his range and drink at his
springs. Only a few can live on the desert. Let him who has found the
springs and the trails keep them for his own. Let him who came too late
go away to find for himself, to prove himself a warrior, or let his bones
whiten in the sand. The Navajo counsels his white friend to kill."

"The great Eschtah speaks wise words," said Naab. "The White Prophet is
richer for them. He will lay aside the prayers to his unseeing God, and
will seek his foe."

"It is well."

"The white man's foe is strong," went on the Mormon; "he has many men,
they will fight. If Eschtah sends his braves with his friend there will
be war. Many braves will fall. The White Prophet wishes to save them if
he can. He will go forth alone to kill his foe. If the sun sets four
times and the white man is not here, then Eschtah will send his great
war-chief and his warriors. They will kill whom they find at the white
man's springs. And thereafter half of all the white man's cattle that
were stolen shall be Eschtah's, so that he watch over the water and
range."

"Eschtah greets a chief," answered the Indian. "The White Prophet knows
he will kill his enemy, but he is not sure he will return. He is not
sure that the little braves of his foe will fly like the winds, yet he
hopes. So he holds the Navajo back to the last. Eschtah will watch the
sun set four times. If his white friend returns he will rejoice. If he
does not return the Navajo will send his warriors on the trail."