The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel

by Zane Grey

that offered itself.

  It was during the long evenings, when he could not be active, that time

  oppressed him, and the memories of the past hurt him. A glimpse of the

  red sunset through the cliff-gate toward the west would start the train

  of thought; he both loved and hated the Painted Desert. Mescal was there

  in the purple shadows. He dreamed of her in the glowing embers of the

  log-fire. He saw her on Black Bolly with hair flying free to the wind.

  And he could not shut out the picture of her sitting in the corner of

  the room, silent, with bowed head, while the man to whom she was pledged

  hung close over her. That memory had a sting. It was like a spark of

  fire dropped on the wound in his breast where the desert-hawk had struck

  him. It was like a light gleaming on the sombre line he was waiting to

  cross.

  XIV. WOLF

  ON the anniversary of the night Mescal disappeared the mysterious voice

  which had called to Hare so often and so strangely again pierced his

  slumber, and brought him bolt upright in his bed shuddering and

  listening. The dark room was as quiet as a tomb. He fell back into his

  blankets trembling with emotion. Sleep did not close his eyes again that

  night; he lay in a fever waiting for the dawn, and when the gray gloom

  lightened he knew what he must do.

  After breakfast he sought August Naab. "May I go across the river?" he

  asked.

  The old man looked up from his carpenter's task and fastened his glance

  on Hare. "Mescal?"

  "Yes."

  "I saw it long ago." He shook his head and spread his great hands.

  "There's no use for me to say what the desert is. If you ever come back

  you'll bring her. Yes, you may go. It's a man's deed. God keep you!"

  Hare spoke to no other person; he filled one saddle-bag with grain,

  another with meat, bread, and dried fruits, strapped a five-gallon

  leather water-sack back of Silvermane's saddle, and set out toward the

  river. At the crossing-bar he removed Silvermane's equipments and placed

  them in the boat. At that moment a long howl, as of a dog baying the

  moon, startled him from his musings, and his eyes sought the river-bank,

  up and down, and then the opposite side. An animal, which at first he

  took to be a gray timber-wolf, was running along the sand-bar of the

  landing.

  "Pretty white for a wolf," he muttered. "Might be a Navajo dog."

  The beast sat down on his haunches and, lifting a lean head, sent up a

  doleful howl. Then he began trotting along the bar, every few paces

  stepping to the edge of the water. Presently he spied Hare, and he began

  to bark furiously.

  "It's a dog all right; wants to get across," said Hare. "Where have I

  seen him?"

  Suddenly he sprang to his feet, almost upsetting the boat. "He's like

  Mescal's Wolf!" He looked closer, his heart beginning to thump, and then

  he yelled: "Ki-yi! Wolf! Hyer! Hyer!"

  The dog leaped straight up in the air, and coming down, began to dash

  back and forth along the sand with piercing yelps.

  "It's Wolf! Mescal must be near," cried Hare. A veil obscured his sight,

  and every vein was like a hot cord. "Wolf! Wolf! I'm coming!"

  With trembling hands he tied Silvermane's bridle to the stern seat of

  the boat and pushed off. In his eagerness he rowed too hard, dragging

  Silvermane's nose under water, and he had to check himself. Time and

  again he turned to call to the dog. At length the bow grated on the

  sand, and Silvermane emerged with a splash and a snort.

  "Wolf, old fellow!" cried Hare. "Where's Mescal? Wolf, where is she?" He

  threw his arms around the dog. Wolf whined, licked Hare's face, and

  breaking away, ran up the sandy trail, and back again. But he barked no

  more; he waited to see if Hare was following.

  "All right, Wolf--coming." Never had Hare saddled so speedily, nor

  mounted so quickly. He sent Silvermane into the willow-skirted trail

  close behind the dog, up on the rocky bench, and then under the bulging

  wall. Wolf reached the level between the canyon and Echo Cliffs, and

  then started straight west toward the Painted Desert. He trotted a few

  rods and turned to see if the man was coming.

  Doubt, fear, uncertainty ceased for Hare. With the first blast of dust-

  scented air in his face he knew Wolf was leading him to Mescal. He knew

  that the cry he had heard in his dream was hers, that the old mysterious

  promise of the desert had at last begun its fulfilment. He gave one

  sharp exultant answer to that call. The horizon, ever-widening, lay

  before him, and the treeless plains, the sun-scorched slopes, the sandy

  stretches, the massed blocks of black mesas, all seemed to welcome him;

  his soul sang within him.

  For Mescal was there. Far away she must be, a mere grain of sand in all

  that world of drifting sands, perhaps ill, perhaps hurt, but alive,

  waiting for him, calling for him, crying out with a voice that no

  distance could silence. He did not see the sharp peaks as pitiless

  barriers, nor the mesas and domes as black-faced death, nor the

  moisture-drinking sands as life-sucking foes to plant and beast and man.

  That painted wonderland had sheltered Mescal for a year. He had loved it

  for its color, its change, its secrecy; he loved it now because it had

  not been a grave for Mescal, but a home. Therefore he laughed at the

  deceiving yellow distances in the foreground of glistening mesas, at the

  deceiving purple distances of the far-off horizon. The wind blew a song

  in his ears; the dry desert odors were fragrance in his nostrils; the

  sand tasted sweet between his teeth, and the quivering heat-waves,

  veiling the desert in transparent haze, framed beautiful pictures for

  his eyes.

  Wolf kept to the fore for some thirty paces, and though he had ceased to

  stop, he still looked back to see if the horse and man were following.

  Hare had noted the dog occasionally in the first hours of travel, but he

  had given his eyes mostly to the broken line of sky and desert in the

  west, to the receding contour of Echo Cliffs, to the spread and break of

  the desert near at hand. Here and there life showed itself in a gaunt

  coyote sneaking into the cactus, or a horned toad huddling down in the

  dust, or a jewel-eyed lizard sunning himself upon a stone. It was only

  when his excited fancy had cooled that Hare came to look closely at

  Wolf. But for the dog's color he could not have been distinguished from

  a real wolf. His head and ears and tail drooped, and he was lame in his

  right front paw.

  Hare halted in the shade of a stone, dismounted and called the dog to

  him. Wolf returned without quickness, without eagerness, without any of

  the old-time friendliness of shepherding days. His eyes were sad and

  strange. Hare felt a sudden foreboding, but rejected it with passionate

  force. Yet a chill remained. Lifting Wolf's paw he discovered that the

  ball of the foot was worn through; whereupon he called into service a

  piece of buckskin, and fashioning a rude moccasin he tied it round the

  foot. Wolf licked his hand, but there was no change in the sad light of

  his
eyes. He turned toward the west as if anxious to be off.

  "All right, old fellow," said Hare, "only go slow. From the look of that

  foot I think you've turned back on a long trail."

  Again they faced the west, dog leading, man following, and addressed

  themselves to a gradual ascent. When it had been surmounted Hare

  realized that his ride so far had brought him only through an anteroom;

  the real portal now stood open to the Painted Desert. The immensity of

  the thing seemed to reach up to him with a thousand lines, ridges,

  canyons, all ascending out of a purple gulf. The arms of the desert

  enveloped him, a chill beneath their warmth.

  As he descended into the valley, keeping close to Wolf, he marked a

  straight course in line with a volcanic spur. He was surprised when the

  dog, though continually threading jumbles of rock, heading canyons,

  crossing deep washes, and going round obstructions, always veered back

  to this bearing as true as a compass-needle to