by Zane Grey
The hogans where these desert savages dwelt were all alike; only the chief’s was larger. From without it resembled a mound of clay with a few white logs, half imbedded, shining against the brick red. August Naab drew aside a blanket hanging over a door, and entered, beckoning his companion to follow. Inured as Hare had become to the smell and smart of wood-smoke, for a moment he could not see, or scarcely breathe, so thick was the atmosphere. A fire, the size of which attested the desert Indian’s love of warmth, blazed in the middle of the hogan, and sent part of its smoke upward through a round hole in the roof. Eschtah, with blanket over his shoulders, his lean black head bent, sat near the fire. He noted the entrance of his visitors, but immediately resumed his meditative posture, and appeared to be unaware of their presence.
Hare followed August’s example, sitting down and speaking no word. His eyes, however, roved discreetly to and fro. Eschtah’s three wives presented great differences in age and appearance. The eldest was a wrinkled, parchment-skinned old hag who sat sightless before the fire; the next was a solid square squaw, employed in the task of combing a naked boy’s hair with a comb made of stiff thin roots tied tightly in a round bunch. Judging from the youngster’s actions and grimaces, this combing process was not a pleasant one. The third wife, much younger, had a comely face, and long braids of black hair, of which, evidently, she was proud. She leaned on her knees over a flat slab of rock, and holding in her hands a long oval stone, she rolled and mashed corn into meal. There were young braves, handsome in their bronze-skinned way, with bands binding their straight thick hair, silver rings in their ears, silver bracelets on their wrists, silver buttons on their moccasins. There were girls who looked up from their blanket-weaving with shy curiosity, and then turned to their frames strung with long threads. Under their nimble fingers the wool-carrying needles slipped in and out, and the colored stripes grew apace. Then there were younger boys and girls, all bright-eyed and curious; and babies sleeping on blankets. Where the walls and ceiling were not covered with buckskin garments, weapons and blankets, Hare saw the white wood-ribs of the hogan structure. It was a work of art, this circular house of forked logs and branches, interwoven into a dome, arched and strong, and all covered and cemented with clay.
At a touch of August’s hand Hare turned to the old chief; and awaited his speech. It came with the uplifting of Eschtah’s head, and the offering of his hand in the white man’s salute. August’s replies were slow and labored; he could not speak the Navajo language fluently, but he understood it.
“The White Prophet is welcome,” was the chief’s greeting. “Does he come for sheep or braves or to honor the Navajo in his home?”
“Eschtah, he seeks the Flower of the Desert,” replied August Naab. “Mescal has left him. Her trail leads to the bitter waters under the cliff, and then is as a bird’s.”
“Eschtah has waited, yet Mescal has not come to him.”
“She has not been here?”
“Mescal’s shadow has not gladdened the Navajo’s door.”
“She has climbed the crags or wandered into the canyons. The white father loves her; he must find her.”
“Eschtah’s braves and mustangs are for his friend’s use. The Navajo will find her if she is not as the grain of drifting sand. But is the White Prophet wise in his years? Let the Flower of the Desert take root in the soil of her forefathers.”
“Eschtah’s wisdom is great, but he thinks only of Indian blood. Mescal is half white, and her ways have been the ways of the white man. Nor does Eschtah think of the white man’s love.”
“The desert has called. Where is the White Prophet’s vision? White blood and red blood will not mix. The Indian’s blood pales in the white man’s stream; or it burns red for the sun and the waste and the wild. Eschtah’s forefathers, sleeping here in the silence, have called the Desert Flower.”
“It is true. But the white man is bound; he cannot be as the Indian; he does not content himself with life as it is; he hopes and prays for change; he believes in the progress of his race on earth. Therefore Eschtah’s white friend smelts Mescal; he has brought her up as his own; he wants to take her home, to love her better, to trust to the future.”
“The white man’s ways are white man’s ways. Eschtah understands. He remembers his daughter lying here. He closed her dead eyes and sent word to his white friend. He named this child for the flower that blows in the wind of silent places. Eschtah gave his granddaughter to his friend. She has been the bond between them. Now she is flown and the White Father seeks the Navajo. Let him command. Eschtah has spoken.”
Eschtah pressed into Naab’s service a band of young braves, under the guidance of several warriors who knew every trail of the range, every waterhole, every cranny where even a wolf might hide. They swept the river-end of the plateau, and working westward, scoured the levels, ridges, valleys, climbed to the peaks, and sent their Indian dogs into the thickets and caves. From Eschtah’s encampment westward the hogans diminished in number till only one here and there was discovered, hidden under a yellow wall, or amid a clump of cedars. All the Indians met with were sternly questioned by the chiefs, their dwellings were searched, and the ground about their waterholes was closely examined. Mile after mile the plateau was covered by these Indians, who beat the brush and penetrated the fastnesses with a hunting instinct that left scarcely a rabbit-burrow unrevealed. The days sped by; the circle of the sun arched higher; the patches of snow in high places disappeared; and the search proceeded westward. They camped where the night overtook them, sometimes near water and grass, sometimes in bare dry places. To the westward the plateau widened. Rugged ridges rose here and there, and seared crags split the sky like sharp sawteeth. And after many miles of wild up-ranging they reached a divide which marked the line of Eschtah’s domain.
Naab’s dogged persistence and the Navajos’ faithfulness carried them into the country of the Moki Indians, a tribe classed as slaves by the proud race of Eschtah. Here they searched the villages and ancient tombs and ruins, but of Mescal there was never a trace.
Hare rode as diligently and searched as indefatigably as August, but he never had any real hope of finding the girl. To hunt for her, however, despite its hopelessness, was a melancholy satisfaction, for never was she out of his mind.
Nor was the month’s hard riding with the Navajos without profit. He made friends with the Indians, and learned to speak many of their words. Then a whole host of desert tricks became part of his accumulating knowledge. In climbing the crags, in looking for water and grass, in loosing Silvermane at night and searching for him at dawn, in marking tracks on hard ground, in all the sight and feeling and smell of desert things he learned much from the Navajos. The whole outward life of the Indian was concerned with the material aspect of Nature—dust, rock, air, wind, smoke, the cedars, the beasts of the desert. These things made up the Indians’ day. The Navajos were worshippers of the physical; the sun was their supreme god. In the mornings when the gray of dawn flushed to rosy red they began their chant to the sun. At sunset the Navajos were watchful and silent with faces westward. The Moki Indians also, Hare observed, had their morning service to the great giver of light. In the gloom of early dawn, before the pink appeared in the east, and all was whitening gray, the Mokis emerged from their little mud and stone huts and sat upon the roofs with blanketed and drooping heads.
One day August Naab showed in few words how significant a factor the sun was in the lives of desert men.
“We’ve got to turn back,” he said to Hare. “The sun’s getting hot and the snow will melt in the mountains. If the Colorado rises too high we can’t cross.”
They were two days in riding back to the encampment. Eschtah received them in dignified silence, expressive of his regret. When their time of departure arrived he accompanied them to the head of the nearest trail, which started down from Saweep Peak, the highest point of Echo Cliffs. It was the Navajos’ outlook over the Painted Desert.
“Mescal is there,” said Aug
ust Naab. “She’s there with the slave Eschtah gave her. He leads Mescal. Who can follow him there?”
The old chieftain reined in his horse, beside the time-hollowed trail, and the same hand that waved his white friend downward swept up in slow stately gesture toward the illimitable expanse. It was a warrior’s salute to an unconquered world. Hare saw in his falcon eyes the still gleam, the brooding fire, the mystical passion that haunted the eyes of Mescal.
“The slave without a tongue is a wolf. He scents the trails and the waters. Eschtah’s eyes have grown old watching here, but he has seen no Indian who could follow Mescal’s slave. Eschtah will lie there, but no Indian will know the path to the place of his sleep. Mescal’s trail is lost in the sand. No man may find it. Eschtah’s words are wisdom. Look!”
To search for any living creatures in that borderless domain of colored dune, of shifting cloud of sand, of purple curtain shrouding mesa and dome, appeared the vainest of all human endeavors. It seemed a veritable rainbow realm of the sun. At first only the beauty stirred Hare—he saw the copper belt close under the cliffs, the white beds of alkali and washes of silt farther out, the wind-ploughed canyons and dust-encumbered ridges ranging west and east, the scalloped slopes of the flat tableland rising low, the tips of volcanic peaks leading the eye beyond to veils and vapors hovering over blue clefts and dim line of level lanes, and so on, and on, out to the vast unknown. Then Hare grasped a little of its meaning. It was a sun-painted, sun-governed world. Here was deep and majestic Nature eternal and unchangeable. But it was only through Eschtah’s eyes that he saw its parched slopes, its terrifying desolateness, its sleeping death.
When the old chieftain’s lips opened Hare anticipated the austere speech, the import that meant only pain to him, and his whole inner being seemed to shrink.
“The White Prophet’s child of red blood is lost to him,” said Eschtah. “The Flower of the Desert is as a grain of drifting sand.”
CHAPTER XIII
THE SOMBRE LINE
August Naab hoped that Mescal might have returned in his absence; but to Hare such hope was vain. The women of the oasis met them with gloomy faces presaging bad news, and they were reluctant to tell it. Mescal’s flight had been forgotten in the sterner and sadder misfortune that had followed.
Snap Naab’s wife lay dangerously ill, the victim of his drunken frenzy. For days after the departure of August and Jack the man had kept himself in a stupor; then his store of drink failing, he had come out of his almost senseless state into an insane frenzy. He had tried to kill his wife and wreck his cottage, being prevented in the nick of time by Dave Naab, the only one of his brothers who dared approach him. Then he had ridden off on the White Sage trail and had not been heard from since.
The Mormon put forth all his skill in surgery and medicine to save the life of his son’s wife, but he admitted that he had grave misgivings as to her recovery. But these in no manner affected his patience, gentleness, and cheer. While there was life there was hope, said August Naab. He bade Hare, after he had rested awhile, to pack and ride out to the range, and tell his sons that he would come later.
It was a relief to leave the oasis, and Hare started the same day, and made Silver Cup that night. As he rode under the low-branching cedars toward the bright camp-fire he looked about him sharply. But not one of the four faces ruddy in the glow belonged to Snap Naab.
“Hello, Jack,” called Dave Naab, into the dark. “I knew that was you. Silvermane sure rings bells when he hoofs it down the stones. How’re you and dad? and did you find Mescal? I’ll bet that desert child led you clear to the Little Colorado.”
Hare told the story of the fruitless search.
“It’s no more than we expected,” said Dave. “The man doesn’t live who can trail the peon. Mescal’s like a captured wild mustang that’s slipped her halter and gone free. She’ll die out there on the desert or turn into a stalk of the Indian cactus for which she’s named. It’s a pity, for she’s a good girl, too good for Snap.”
“What’s your news?” inquired Hare.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Dave, with a short laugh. “The cattle wintered well. We’ve had little to do but hang round and watch. Zeke and I chased old Whitefoot one day, and got pretty close to Seeping Springs. We met Joe Stube, a rider who was once a friend of Zeke’s. He’s with Holderness now, and he said that Holderness had rebuilt the corrals at the spring; also he has put up a big cabin, and he has a dozen riders there. Stube told us Snap had been shooting up White Sage. He finished up by killing Snood. They got into an argument about you.”
“About me!”
“Yes, it seems that Snood took your part, and Snap wouldn’t stand for it. Too bad! Snood was a good fellow. There’s no use talking, Snap’s going too far—he is—” Dave did not conclude his remark, and the silence was more significant than any utterance.
“What will the Mormons in White Sage say about Snap’s killing Snood?”
“They’ve said a lot. This even-break business goes all right among gun-fighters, but the Mormons call killing murder. They’ve outlawed Culver, and Snap will be outlawed next.”
“Your father hinted that Snap would find the desert too small for him and me?”
“Jack, you can’t be too careful. I’ve wanted to speak to you about it. Snap will ride in here some day and then—” Dave’s pause was not reassuring.
And it was only on the third day after Dave’s remark that Hare, riding down the mountain with a deer he had shot, looked out from the trail and saw Snap’s cream pinto trotting toward Silver Cup. Beside Snap rode a tall man on a big bay. When Hare reached camp he reported to George and Zeke what he had seen, and learned in reply that Dave had already caught sight of the horsemen, and had gone down to the edge of the cedars. While they were speaking Dave hurriedly ran up the trail.
“It’s Snap and Holderness,” he called out, sharply. “What’s Snap doing with Holderness? What’s he bringing him here for?”
“I don’t like the looks of it,” replied Zeke, deliberately.
“Jack, what’ll you do?” asked Dave, suddenly.
“Do? What can I do? I’m not going to run out of camp because of a visit from men who don’t like me.”
“It might be wisest.”
“Do you ask me to run to avoid a meeting with your brother?”
“No.” The dull red came to Dave’s cheek. “But will you draw on him?”
“Certainly not. He’s August Naab’s son and your brother.”
“Yes, and you’re my friend, which Snap won’t think of. Will you draw on Holderness, then?”
“For the life of me, Dave, I can’t tell you,” replied Hare, pacing the trail. “Something must break loose in me before I can kill a man. I’d draw, I suppose, in self-defence. But what good would it do me to pull too late? Dave, this thing is what I’ve feared. I’m not afraid of Snap or Holderness, not that way. I mean I’m not ready. Look here, would either of them shoot an unarmed man?”
“Lord, I hope not; I don’t think so. But you’re packing your gun.”
Hare unbuckled his cartridge-belt, which held his Colt, and hung it over the pommel of his saddle; then he sat down on one of the stone seats near the camp-fire.
“There they come,” whispered Zeke, and he rose to his feet, followed by George.
“Steady, you fellows,” said Dave, with a warning glance. “I’ll do the talking.”
Holderness and Snap appeared among the cedars, and trotting out into the glade reined in their mounts a few paces from the fire. Dave Naab stood directly before Hare, and George and Zeke stepped aside.
“Howdy, boys?” called out Holderness, with a smile, which was like a gleam of light playing on a frozen lake. His amber eyes were steady, their gaze contracted into piercing yellow points. Dave studied the cattle-man with cool scorn, but refusing to speak to him, addressed his brother.
“Snap, what do you mean by riding in here with this fellow?”
“I’m Holderness’s new f
oreman. We’re just looking round,” replied Snap. The hard lines, the sullen shade, the hawk-beak cruelty had returned tenfold to his face and his glance was like a living, leaping flame.
“New foreman!” exclaimed Dave. His jaw dropped and he stared in amazement. “No—you can’t mean that—you’re drunk!”
“That’s what I said,” growled Snap.
“You’re a liar!” shouted Dave, a crimson blot blurring with the brown on his cheeks. He jumped off the ground in his fury.
“It’s true, Naab; he’s my new foreman,” put in Holderness, suavely. “A hundred a month—in gold—and I’ve got as good a place for you.”
“Well, by G—d!” Dave’s arms came down and his face blanched to his lips. “Holderness!”
“I know what you’d say,” interrupted the ranchman.
“But stop it. I know you’re game. And what’s the use of fighting? I’m talking business. I’ll—”
“You can’t talk business or anything else to me,” said Dave Naab, and he veered sharply toward his brother. “Say it again, Snap Naab. You’ve hired out to ride for this man?”
“That’s it.”
“You’re going against your father, your brothers, your own flesh and blood?”
“I can’t see it that way.”
“Then you’re a drunken, easily-led fool. This man’s no rancher. He’s a rustler. He ruined Martin Cole, the father of your first wife. He’s stolen our cattle; he’s jumped our water-rights. He’s trying to break us. For God’s sake, ain’t you a man?”
“Things have gone bad for me,” replied Snap, sullenly, shifting in his saddle. “I reckon I’ll do better to cut out alone for myself.”
“You crooked cur! But you’re only my half-brother, after all. I always knew you’d come to something bad, but I never thought you’d disgrace the Naabs and break your father’s heart. Now then, what do you want here? Be quick. This’s our range and you and your boss can’t ride here. You can’t even water your horses. Out with it!”
