by Zane Grey
“Nipped? By stars–or what?” she queried.
“By frost,” he returned. Then seriously he continued: “I love this purple sage upland. I’ve come here often, though not by the Pahute trail. You wouldn’t dream this fine open country jumps off over here–down into the most terrible broken desert. Rocks–canyons that’re impassable.”
“Yes, I would. I saw where,” replied Marian.
“Well, I’m going to ride over here some ten miles south, round the corner of the mountain where an old Pahute lives,” continued Withers. “I buy a good deal from him, and he buys from me. He’s rich and an old scoundrel. He salts his wool. Now only few Indians do that.”
“Salts his wool? What does that mean?”
“He spreads his wool out in the sun and covers it with salt. That salt draws moisture from the air and melts into the wool, making it almost twice as heavy.”
“Withers, I’ve persuaded Etenia not to do that any more,” spoke up Nophaie.
“You have! Well, by golly! I’m shore glad, as much for Etenia’s sake as mine. I like him. He’s an industrious, intelligent Indian. The blankets of his women are the best we buy. Nophaie, he’s wealthy. I should think he would go shares with you in some sheep deal.”
“Yes, he would,” replied Nophaie, “but he wanted me to marry his daughter, and when I refused he grew very angry. Said I had Indian body and white-man mind.”
“Humph! that’s pretty serious,” returned Withers, soberly, and, shouldering his ax, he turned toward his camp.
“Is it serious, Nophaie?” asked Marian.
“I’m afraid so–for me.”
“Why? Because you can’t–can’t marry or become what this Indian thinks?”
“Both. You see my position is hard. My people are proud that I have renounced the white man. But they expect me to fall at once into their ways. I tried. I have failed in many things.”
Thought-provoking indeed were these words to Marian, and she began to get a glimpse of the problem before her.
“I’m rested now,” she said, rising. “Take me to see your hogan and Maah– whatever you called him.”
Beyond the stream some hundred or more yards, in an open space of higher ground, stood a large beehive-shaped mound of red earth with a column of blue smoke rising from the center of its round roof. At nearer view Marian saw that the earth had been plastered thickly over a framework of wood. The open door faced the east.
Nophaie spoke to her in his Indian tongue–something she sensed to be ceremonious and indicative of the sacredness of his act in bidding her enter. She stooped to go in. A smoldering fire occupied the center of this habitation called a hogan, and the smoke from it seemed to float round and round, to drift at last up through the hole in the roof. This roof was a marvel of ingenuity and skill, being constructed of heavy trunks of cedars planted in the ground, and affording support for the many thick branches that formed a concave network to hold the covering of red earth. How substantial and strong this Indian edifice! Something about it impressed Marian with a significance of its long adoption by the tribe.
A few iron and stone utensils lay scattered beside the fire. A haunch of meat hung from one of the posts, and beside it on the ground lay a sack of flour, with some boxes and tins that evidently contained food supplies. Besides these there were two beds in the hogan, one on either side of the fire, close to the wall.
“Which bed is yours?” asked Marian, unable to restrain her curiosity.
“Here,” said Nophaie.
His action designated an Indian blanket and a sheepskin with woolly side uppermost. Obviously the former was Nophaie’s coverlet, and the latter was his mattress. Marian thought of the hard bed of the Spartans. So Nophaie slept there! She forced her gaze to search farther, to the end that she saw an old coat, a leather pouch studded with silver buttons, and a worn hunting knife. These then were Nophaie’s possessions and this was his home. Suddenly Marian’s eyes blurred and smarted. Was that because of the acrid wood smoke and the heavy pungent odor? Whatever the causes, Marian realized she could not have remained there for five minutes longer. Nor could she utter one word as to her feelings or impressions.
“I sleep out under the cedar often, but Maahesenie doesn’t like that,” said Nophaie.
“Let me see your sheep,” rejoined Marian.
She did not speak, nor did Nophaie, while they were threading a way through the tall sagebrush, the long light-green, purple-tinted sprigs of which reached to her shoulder. She stripped a tiny branch and, crushing the soft leaves, she pressed them to her lips and nostrils. How bitter the taste–how like a drug the intoxicating pungency of fragrance! She saw purple berries on the cedar trees, and a golden dust-like powder upon the foliage. Then she heard the baa of sheep and bleat of lambs.
Soon Marian emerged from the zone of cedars into the open sage, and here her sight was charmed by a flock of sheep and goats, and many lambs. If Nophaie had only a small flock, Marian wondered what a large one would be. No less than several hundred was her calculation of their number. Most of them were white, and many were black, and some were brown. The lambs all appeared as fleecy white as wool could be. They played round Marian’s feet and had no fear of her. The baaing and bleating were incessant and somehow struck pleasantly upon Marian’s ear.
Then she observed another Indian, tall and gaunt, with stoop of shoulders and iron-gray hair. He folded a thin blanket round him as he walked toward her. What a record of life was his face! Years and storms of the desert!
“Maahesenie–Benow di cleash,” said Nophaie.
“How do?” returned the Indian, extending a brown hand to Marian.
She shook hands with him and greeted him, not, however, without hesitation over the pronunciation of his name.
“White girl come far?” he asked, with slow curving arm extended toward the east. His English was intelligible.
“Yes, very far,” replied Marian.
“Saddle heap hard seat–huh?” he queried, with a twinkle in his eyes.
Marian nodded and laughed her affirmation. What sharp sight these Indians had! From a distance this Maahesenie had observed in her walk the evident tell- tale truth of how the saddle had punished her. Moreover, besides keen eyes he also had a keen sense of humor. This old Indian was laughing at her. But when he addressed Nophaie it was with dignity and gravity, and his gestures made known to Marian the fact that he was talking about her. When he ended Nophaie led her back toward the camp.
“What did he say about me?” she asked, very curious.
“I didn’t get it all. You see, my mother tongue comes back slowly to me. But I got enough to make you vain. He said, ‘Eyes of the sky and hair of the sun.’ Then something about your skin being like a sago lily.”
“Well, bless him!” exclaimed Marian, in delighted surprise. “And what’s a sago lily?”
“Most beautiful of desert flowers. They grow in the deep canyons.”
Marian slept again for a couple of hours, and awoke to feel somewhat eased of pangs and weariness. The afternoon was far spent, waning in a solemn glory of light and peace. Marian listened to the hum of bees and the murmur of water. Gentle stream and colorful sage! The cruelty of nature and life did not seem to abide in them, yet a few moments of sharp-eyed scrutiny made known to her tiny denizens of both, seeking to destroy. Mystery of mysteries that living creatures must prey upon other living creatures! Where was God in such nature? If species preyed upon species, why not man upon man?
“I declare,” murmured Marian, suddenly aghast at her thoughts, “this desert is giving me the queerest ideas.”
Withers called her to an early supper. Nophaie sat with her, and the other Indians sat opposite. All of them did justice to the extraordinary meal served by the trader.
“Well,” he said, “my plan is to eat all the grub quick at the beginning of a hard trip. That builds up strength to finish.”
After supper Nophaie walked with Marian, singularly thoughtful and sad. Suddenly he p
ointed to a distant cone-shaped mound of stone that appeared to have a monument on its summit.
“I want you to climb there with me–to-night or to- morrow,” he said.
“Take me now,” she replied. “But why there particularly?”
“I want you to see my Marching Rocks from there–and my Mountain of Light.”
“Nophaie–you want me to climb there–just because they are beautiful?” she queried, keen to divine his unexpressed thought.
“No. But because seen from that height they give me strength.”
“Strength?” she echoed. “For what–do you need strength now?”
He seemed to shudder and shrink, with a strange, faint vibrant convulsion not natural to him.
“To tell you my trouble!”
Nophaie’s somber gaze, and the pathos and solemnity of his voice, further augmented Marian’s fears and prepared her for catastrophe. His trouble must become hers. How singular his desire for her to climb to this particular height so that he could unburden himself! Their silent walk through the sage, and slow climb up a hill of smooth bare stone, gave Marian time to fortify herself against disaster of her hopes. She also anticipated some extraordinary spectacle from the summit of this hill. The slope was steep, and ascent difficult. Looked at from their camp, it had not appeared nearly so high as it actually was. They climbed from the eastern side, walking in long zigzag slants, and resting often. Near the summit there was a depression, the upper side of which terminated in the point of stone that supported the monument. This pyramid of rocks stood eight or ten feet high, and crude as it was it had some semblance of symmetry and dignity. It meant something more than a landmark to passing Indians.
“Who built it?” asked Marian.
“Men of my tribe,” replied Nophaie.
“What does it mean?”
“It signifies a place for prayer. Indians climb here to pray. Never unless they have something to pray for.”
“Does each Indian make his own prayer?”
“No. There are many prayers, but they are those used by our forefathers.”
“Have you prayed here?” asked Marian, speaking low.
“Many times,” replied Nophaie.
“Are you going to pray–now?”
“Yes, to my Marching Rocks and to my Mountain of Light and to the Blue Wind.”
“Will you let me hear your prayers?”
“Indeed, I want you to!”
With that Nophaie again took Marian by the hand and led her up the remaining few steps to the summit of this stone hill which had obstructed the view.
“Look, Benow di cleash,” he said.
Marian did as she was bidden, suddenly to become silent and thrilled, motionless as the monument upon which she rested a reverent hand. As she gazed Nophaie began his prayer.
“Marching beautiful Rocks, Part red and part white, With light falling on you from the sky. The wonderful light! I give you this; This a prayer for you. On this day make my foot well, Make my leg well, Make my body well, Make my face well, Make my soul well. On this day let me rise from my bed, Let me walk straight, Let me not have fever, Let it be well before me, Let all that I see be well, Let me believe now all is well.” Marian listened as she gazed, and felt that forever on her memory would be limned the splendor and the strange phenomenon of the apparent life of this weird land of Marching Rocks.
Below Marian a cedared plateau, gray with grass and sage, led eastward toward bare mounds of rock, isolated and strangely set, with semblance to great prehistoric beasts. Scattered and striking they led on over the wide green plain, round and bare and huge, all seeming to move forward, to march on, to be impelled, to be endowed with mighty and majestic life. Marching Rocks! Van of the army of naked earth, vast riven mass of rock, rising and spreading from north to south, marching down from afar, driven by the dim slopes and immense heave of mountains!
“Benow di cleash, the sculptor who carved those Marching Rocks is the wind,” said Nophaie. “Listen to our prayer:”
“Blue wind, beautiful chieftess, Send out a rainbow by which let me walk. Blue clouds, blue clouds, With your shoes let me walk. Blue clouds, with your leggings make me walk; Blue clouds, with your shirt let me walk; Blue clouds, with your hat let me walk; Blue clouds, make it dark behind me; Blue wind, make it light before me; Earth Woman let it rain much for me, By which let the green corn ripen. Make all peaceful with me.” Then Nophaie bade Marian sit down and lean against him beside the monument.
“We will watch the sun set over the desert,” he added. “Sunset–the fulfilment, the glory, the end of the Indian’s day!... White people do not rise to see the breaking of the morning light. And they do not care to watch the declining sun. But for Indians these hours are rituals.”
To the west, where Nophaie directed Marian’s rapt gaze, the scale grew grand, a supreme manifestation of nature’s sculpturing. The purple shadows now began to define the canyons and lift the wavy knolls of red rock. From out that thick sunset haze of the direct west swept majestic escarpments, level and dark, to overshadow the world of carved and graven marching rocks. Farther around, beyond the blazing center of the west, began the black jagged uplift of Nophaie’s Mountain of Light. It sheered up to a round, white-patched, black- fringed dome. The pure snow and lofty pine held dominion there.
Every moment the spectacle changed, and out over the wasteland there was chaos of light and color. The purple shadows turned to black; the red and yellow grew less intense. Vast rays of light slanted down from the broken sunset of clouds. Marian’s emotion increased with the growing transformation. Before her eyes stretched a belt of naked earth, two hundred miles long and one hundred wide, curving from east to west. No human sight was adequate to grasp its tremendousness and its meaning. Eye of eagle or condor, most delicate and powerful of all organs of vision, must be limited here. There was no movement of anything–only the illusion of the Marching Rocks; no sound, nothing but the stark upflung nakedness of the earth, beyond comprehension to the human mind, exalting to the soul. A world of naked rock, and cedar, and sage for the Indian! Marian cried out in her heart in pity for the Indians that eventually must be driven from this world, so still, so solemn, so awful, yet a refuge and an abode of life.
The dark walls of granite grew dusky red; the marching rocks moved like mammoths, mystic evidence of the ages. Distance was made clear by the lifting of haze from the canyoned shadows, by the last piercing light of the sun. It seemed that a million facets of chiseled rock caught this dying glow of sunset and reflected it, throwing the marvel of light upon the clouds. The shadows lengthened and widened and deepened. Marian’s sense of color and proportion grew magnified or dwarfed, she could not tell which. Thousands of rock ridges, facing the sun, marched down to meet it.
The air grew chill. Farthest away across the riven rock a grayness blotted out the horizon. The splendid landmarks seemed to be receding, retreating, dying with the sunset. Every moment became more solemn than that preceding. It was a place not meant for white man. Yet how beautiful! The great light was fading. Over most of the rocky area the strange gray shadow encroached while Marian gazed; only to the eastward did the bright gleams of sunlight fall upon the highest faces of the Marching Rocks. Again these rays shot slanting from out of rifts in the clouds, growing strong and glorious, strangely lighting for the moment the horizon peaks of white. Then all that far east, as had the north, paled and darkened. It was a blight. It spread toward the sunset. Low down ruddy gleams suddenly caught the van of the Marching Rocks. But that beauty of radiance was ephemeral. The ball of half-clouded fire tipped the slope of Nothsis Ahn, and the chasms became veiled in haze of rose. Nophaie’s mountain grew dark and clear against the steel-blue sky. All the upland in its shadow seemed bathed in ethereal light. Strange change! How cold! The sun was sinking. The desert darkened. Only a disk of the sun remained, still overpowering, still master of the day. It was sinking farther. The day was nearly done. How rosy the tips of the stone hills! Then the radiant
disk of white fire vanished. A golden glow on cloud and sky marked the place where the sun had gone down. The earth of naked stone seemed to gather power, to rise, to come out clear and cold, to reach for the encroaching twilight.
Marian turned to Nophaie and said: “I have seen. I feel all you feel.... Now tell me your trouble.”
Nophaie rose, lifting her with him, and towered over her, his face as she had never beheld it. Mystery and grief, age and strength, came out in the bronzed lineaments; and his eyes were terrible. Marian imagined she saw the soul of the Indian.
“I am an infidel!” he said, hoarsely.
The shock of intense surprise sustained by Marian precluded her utterance.
“I did not know this when I came back to the reservation,” Nophaie went on, as if passion-driven. “I tried to return to the religion of my people. I prayed–trying to believe. But I cannot.... I am an infidel!... I cannot believe in the Indian’s God–I will not believe in the white man’s God.”
“Oh, Nophaie!” gasped Marian, suddenly released from stunning surprise to the consternation and horror. “Your faith–will come back.”
“Never. My white teaching killed it. The Indian’s religion is best for him. This Morgan kills the Indian’s simple faith in his own God–makes him an infidel–then tries to make him a Christian. It cannot be done. There is not one real Christian Indian on the reservation.”
“Why–that is terrible!” replied Marian. “But you–Nophaie–I am distressed. Oh, do you mean you have no belief in a future life?”
“An infidel has no faith.”
“But yours will come back. It must. I will help you. Surely your religion is as good as mine. No one realizes more than I the necessity of faith in God and immortality. What good could life be without them?... Nophaie, we must strive and pray for yours.”
“Marian, cannot you understand?” asked Nophaie, in pathetic earnestness. “The knowledge forced upon me by white people–my developed intelligence–makes it impossible for me to believe in the Indian’s religion.”
“Impossible!” echoed Marian.
