by Zane Grey
‘Far?’
‘Running,’ answered Kish Taka, ‘he go three day and night. Running he come back, other three day and night.’
From other added fragments Howard gathered something of a story: Kish Taka and his brother, the dog with them, had come from ‘where they lived’ far off to the north, seeking Jim Courtot. Yesterday Kish Taka had sent his dog back across the wastes, carrying a message. The message was in the form of a feather from his belt tied with a lock of hair dipped in blood. The feather was grey, from a dove’s wing, and grey is symbolical of the Underworld with the Hopi; the hair was from the head of Kish Taka’s brother. The meaning was plain. The explanation came stoically: Kish Taka pointed to the wound upon his own head. Jim Courtot, more cunning than they had thought, had surprised his pursuers, had even come out into the desert to take them unawares. He had killed the other Indian from ambush, had wounded Kish Taka and had fled. Now Kish Taka’s tribesmen would understand and another runner would come to take the place of him who had fallen.
That the dog would understand to make the return across the desert to ‘where they lived’ was also explained. Each man there had his dog, each man had his friend. These two men, kind to their two dogs, caressed them, fed them, sheltered them. All other men in the tribe abused these two beasts on sight, stoned them, drove them away. Hence every dog had two masters whom he loved with all of the loyalty of a dog heart and all other men he distrusted and feared and hated. Now, in the desert, Kish Taka had but to drive his dog from him, shouting at him, casting a stone at him, and the big brute to whom similar experiences had come before out of as clear a sky, knew that he had a friend in the distant camp, one friend only in the world, and as straight as a dart made off to find him. In three days’ time he would be leaping and fawning upon his other master, sure of food and kind words. And, when in turn that other master turned upon him and seized a stick with which to beat him, he would know that Kish Taka would take him into his arms and give him meat and water. For such things had he known since he was a roly-poly puppy.
There was but one matter further about which Howard wondered, and he asked his question point-blank. Point-blank Kish Taka answered it.
Jim Courtot, with lies in his mouth, had come to these desert folk several months ago. He had tarried with them long, swearing that he hated all white men, that he had killed a white and that the whites would kill him, that he would spend his life with the Indians, teaching them good things. In time they came to trust him. He learned of them their secrets, he found where they hid the gold they used now and then to barter with the white men in their towns, he saw their hidden turquoises. Further, he wronged a maiden who was one day to come to the kiva of the headman, the Hawk Man, Kish Taka. The maiden now was dead by her own hand; Courtot that night, full-handed with his thievings, had fled; and always and always, until the end came, Kish Taka would follow him.
Howard heard and looked away through the growing dusk and saw, not the scope of a dimming landscape, but something of the soul of Kish Taka. He understood that the Indian had given his confidence freely and he knew that it was, no doubt, the first and last time in his life that he would so speak with a bahana. And it was because Howard had shared his last water with him and was, therefore, ‘brother.’ Kish Taka was an implacable hater; he would follow Jim Courtot until one of them was dead. Kish Taka was a loyal friend, for the Hopi who will bare his heart to a man will bare his breast for him.
Further questions Howard did not ask, feeling that he had penetrated already further into the man’s own personal matters than he should have done. He had heard tales such as all men hear when they come into the influence of the desert south-west, wild tales like those he had recounted about Superstition Pool to Helen and her father, wilder tales about a people who dwelt on in the more northern and more bleak parts of the desert. Lies, for the most part, he judged them, such lies as men tell of an unknown country and other men repeat and embroider. There were men whom he knew who maintained stoutly that the old Seven Cities of Cibola were no dead myth but a living reality; that there were a Hidden People; that they had strange customs and worshipped strange gods and bowed the knee in particular to a young and white goddess, named Yohoya; that they hunted with monster dogs, that they had hidden cities scooped out centuries ago in mountain cliffs and that they were incredibly rich in gold and turquoises. Lies, perhaps. And yet a lie may be based upon truth. Here was a high-type Indian who called himself Kish Taka, the Hawk Man; he hunted with such a dog; he camped on the trail of a bahana who had betrayed and robbed his people. That bahana was Jim Courtot. What had taken Jim Courtot into that country? And now that he was back, Jim Courtot was flush. And, when Sandy Weaver had mentioned certain tracks to him, he had stared over his shoulder and turned white! Truly, there were many questions to ask; but Howard refrained from asking them.
‘This Indian has played a white man’s part to me,’ he told himself. ‘And his business is his own and not mine.’
‘Come,’ said Kish Taka abruptly out of the silence into which they had sunk. ‘Cool now, we go.’
They had but little water remaining in Howard’s canteen, and Kish Taka scorned carrying water for himself; but he had outlined the trail they would take and appeared confident that they would not suffer from lack of water. They struck out toward the south-east, the Indian swinging along ahead, his body stooped a little forward, his thin arms hanging loose at his sides. Several times Howard stopped to drink; the Indian drank once only before their arrival at the spring. Here they rested and ate. The night was already far advanced and glorious with its blazing stars, and they did not tarry long. In half an hour they moved on again. As day was breaking Kish Taka led the way up a steep-sided mesa and, catching Howard’s arm, pointed out toward the east.
‘Here we turn,’ he explained. ‘Not so far that way, maybe two hours, we find more water. Then we go that way,’ and he indicated that they must bear off a little to the south, ‘and more water. Then we sleep in shade. Then at night, not too far, see your place.’
It came about that all that Kish Taka had predicted was so. They found water; they spent the long day in the shade of some stunted trees; they ate all but a few scraps of their food; they went on again at sundown. In the pink flush of another dawn they stood together on the uplands back of Last Ridge and saw before them and below them the green of Desert Valley. In the foreground, a thin wisp of smoke arose from the spot where the Longstreets were camped.
‘Kish Taka go back now.’ The Indian stood, arms folded across his gaunt chest, eyes hard on Howard’s. ‘Back to the Bad Lands to sit down. Soon Kish Taka’s dog comes and with him a man. And while he waits, Kish Taka will make many stones piled up on his brother.’
He swung on his heel to go. But Howard caught at his arm.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Two things! One, where that fire is are two people. An old man and a girl. They are my friends, Kish Taka.’
Kish Taka nodded.
‘My frien’s,’ he said simply.
‘The other thing,’ said Howard. ‘Kish Taka, hungry, killed my calves. He left gold. When again Kish Taka is hungry, let him kill as many calves as he pleases. But let him keep his gold.’
Again the Indian nodded. And this time Howard let him go.
The Indian went back toward the Bad Lands, swift, silent, and in a little was lost in the distance. He did not once turn. Howard withdrew his eyes and sent them questing down toward the wisp of smoke. His thoughts were wandering. And last they winged to Jim Courtot.
‘Jim Courtot,’ he muttered under his breath, as though the man were with him, and as he saw fancied visions of things to be, ‘I have it in my heart to be almost sorry for you.’
Then he shrugged, filled his lungs with the fresh clean cool air which rose up across the miles from his own pastures and set his feet into the trail that would lead home—by way of the Longstreets. Now he
walked eagerly. In half an hour he had made his way down to the flat upon which the canvas shanty stood. He came on, the fatigue gone from a stride that was suddenly buoyant; there was a humorous glint in his eyes as he counted upon surprising them; he would just say, casually, that he had dropped in, neighbour-style, for breakfast.
Then he saw Helen, her upturned, laughing face rosy with the newly-risen sun. Before her, looking down into her eyes, was John Carr. Howard came abruptly to a dead halt. They saw him, and Helen called something to him. Again he came on, but the joyous spring had gone out of his stride and he realized in a dull, strange fashion that for the first time in his life he was not glad to see his old friend.
CHAPTER XV
The Golden Secret
‘Good morning, Mr. Howard!’ cried Helen gaily. Her cheeks were still rosy, flushed, thought Howard quickly, less with the flood of the dawn than with some sudden rush of blood stirred by something that Carr had been saying. Then as she gave him her hand, inspired by the imp of the moment, she ran on: ‘You should have been here last night! Shouldn’t he, Mr. Carr? Sanchia was here!’
‘Mrs. Murray?’ demanded Howard, wondering and therefore floundering into Helen’s trap. ‘What was she doing here?’
Helen appeared to be in the lightest of spirits this morning. Her laughter was one of sheer joyousness. Her eyes were dancing as she retorted:
‘Mrs. Murray? Who said Mrs. Murray? I was talking about Sanchia. Mr. Chuck Evans rode her over last night, asking if we had seen you.’
Howard bit his lip. Carr laughed. Then, seeing the look upon his friend’s face, he grew grave immediately and put out his own hand, saying merely:
‘We wondered what had become of you, Al. And now to have you come in from that direction—and on foot! What’s happened?’
‘A side-winder scared my horse into breaking its tie-rope and leaving me on foot. And I’ve had enough walking to last me seven incarnations. Hello, Mr. Longstreet,’ as he saw the professor step out of his canvas house. Howard went forward to meet him, leaving John Carr with Helen.
‘Just the man I was wishing to see,’ beamed Longstreet, shaking hands enthusiastically. ‘I was on the verge of taking up the matter with your good friend Carr last night, but something prompted me to wait until this morning, in hopes you would come. I—I seem to know you better, somehow.’ He lowered his voice confidentially. ‘Those two out there are just a couple of youngsters this morning. You and I will have to be the serious brains of the occasion.’
Howard glanced over his shoulder. Carr’s broad back was turned to him, Helen’s eyes, glancing toward the shack, were sparkling.
‘Fire away,’ he said colourlessly. ‘What’s in the wind?’
‘First thing—Had breakfast yet?’
Oddly, Howard had no longer any appetite for coffee and bacon, though he had hungrily swallowed his last bit of dried meat an hour ago.
‘Then,’ said Longstreet eagerly, ‘come in here where we can talk.’ And to Helen he called, ‘My dear, I want a few words with Mr. Howard.’
‘Oh, we won’t disturb you,’ Helen laughed back at him. It struck Howard that she would laugh at anything this morning. ‘Mr. Carr and I were just going up on the cliff for the view.’
Longstreet came in and dropped the flap behind him. Then he stepped to a shelf and took down a roll of paper which he spread upon the table. Howard looking at it with lack-lustre eyes saw that it was a sort of geological chart of the neighbourhood. Longstreet set his finger upon a point where he had made a cross in red pencil.
‘It’s there,’ he announced triumphantly.
Howard was thinking of the view from the cliff and failed to grasp the other’s meaning.
‘What’s there?’ he asked.
‘Gold, man!’ cried Longstreet. ‘Gold! Didn’t I say it was as simple as A B C to find gold here? Well, I’ve done it!’
‘Oh, gold.’ And even yet Howard’s interest was not greatly intrigued. ‘I see.’
Longstreet stared at him wonderingly. And then, suddenly, Howard came to earth. Why, the thing, if true, was wonderful, glorious! With all his heart he hoped it was true; for Longstreet’s dear old sake, for Helen’s. He studied the map.
‘That would be right over yonder? About half a mile from here? In Dry Gulch?’
‘Precisely. And it has been there since the time Dry Gulch was not dry but filled with rushing waters. It has been there for any man to find who was not a fool or blind. It rather looks,’ and he chuckled, ‘as though it had been waiting since the Pliocene age for me.’
‘You are sure? You haven’t just stumbled upon a little pocket——’
Longstreet snorted.
‘I am going into the nearest fair-sized town right away,’ he said emphatically, ‘to get men and implements to begin a moderate development. It is a gold mine, my dear young sir—nothing else or less. Here; look at this.’
It was a handful of bits of quartz, brought up into the light from the depths of a sagging pocket. The quartz indicated high-grade ore; it was streaked and pitted with soft yellow gold.
‘By the Lord, you’ve got it!’ cried Howard. He wrung Longstreet’s hand warmly. ‘Good for you. You’ve got the thing you came for!’
‘One of the things,’ Longstreet corrected him with twinkling eyes.
‘And the other?’
‘Another gold mine! As our young friend Barbee puts it, I’m all loaded for bear this trip, partner!’
‘And you haven’t told Miss Helen? Or Carr?’
‘Never a word. And for two very excellent reasons: Imprimis, they both were poking fun at me last night; Helen said that I couldn’t find gold if it were in a minted twenty-dollar gold piece in my own pocket. Now I am having my revenge on them; I’ll show them! Secundo: Next week comes Helen’s birthday. I am going to give her a little surprise. A gold mine for a birthday present isn’t bad, is it?’
Howard sat down to talk matters over, and since there was still coffee and some bits of toast left he changed his mind about breakfast and ate and drank while he listened to Longstreet. The university man had made certain of the value of his discovery only last evening; it had happened that Carr was staying over with them and therefore, while he and Helen chatted about a great deal of nothing at all, Longstreet had ample time to think matters over. To-day he meant to go into Big Run and on into the county seat, which he had learned was but a few miles further on and was a sizable town. There he would take on a small crew of men and what tools and implements and powder would be needed for uncovering his ledge and there he would attend to the necessary papers, the proving up on his claim, matters upon which he was somewhat hazy. The following day he would return and begin work.
‘I’ve got to go down by the ranch,’ Howard told him. ‘Then, if you like, I can go on with you. It is possible I might be of service to you. At least, I could steer you into the right sort of people.’
Longstreet nodded vigorously. ‘That’s fine of you. And I won’t say it was not expected. Some day, perhaps, I can repay you for some of your kindnesses to us. Now, if you are ready, I’ll go and call Helen. And, remember, not a word to them about our business.’
‘Miss Helen will go with us?’
‘I can hardly leave her out here alone, can I?’ smiled Longstreet. ‘And Mr. Carr said that he would have to leave this morning. While he and Helen chat together, you and I can ride on ahead and talk. There are any number of matters to discuss.’
Howard hastily expressed his approval of the plan, and if his tone lacked heartiness, Longstreet did not notice.
‘We are all going down to Desert Valley ranch,’ Longstreet explained when Helen and Carr came at his calling. ‘From there we are going to ride to Big Run and then on into San Ramon. I want to get some—some tools and things there, to scratch around with, you know,’ he con
cluded, beaming with that expression that he wore when he had an ace in the hole. Helen looked at him with keen suspicious eyes.
‘Papa is up to something underhanded,’ she announced serenely. ‘He thinks that he can fool me when he pleases and—look at his face! What is it, father?’
‘Never mind,’ said Longstreet hastily. ‘Just get yourself ready, my dear. You’ll ride with us, Mr. Carr?’
Helen, always ready for a ride, hurried for her hat and gloves; now from the end of the room, her eyes bright with mischief and hidden from the men, she called:
‘Do come, Mr. Carr. I have to have some one to talk with, you know, and papa and Mr. Howard never let me slip a word in sideways.’
‘She wasn’t like this when we rode home in the moonlight the other night,’ thought Howard, considerably puzzled. ‘What have I done, anyway?’
Carr did not give a direct answer. While he cut the end off a fresh cigar, he suggested:
‘How about the horses? Al is on foot.’
‘That’s easy,’ Howard answered. ‘Chuck Evans is herding a string up this way and I can get one of them. Be back while you are getting ready.’ And over his shoulder to Carr, feeling vaguely that in his heart he had been unreasonable and not quite loyal, ‘Better come along, John.’
From the edge of the tableland he saw Evans down below. The cowboy saw him and came at his signal.
‘So you’re back, are you?’ said Chuck. ‘We’d begun to wonder if you’d hit the trail for some other where. Special,’ he added significantly, ‘since it’s been published kind of wide and large that you and Jim Courtot was both packing shooting-irons.’
