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The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel

Page 33

by Zane Grey

form.

  "Mescal!" cried Hare.

  With a cry she ran to him, her arms outstretched, her hair flying in the

  wind, her dark eyes wild with joy.

  XVI. THUNDER RIVER

  FOR an instant Hare's brain reeled, and Mescal's broken murmurings were

  meaningless. Then his faculties grew steady and acute; he held the girl

  as if he intended never to let her go. Mescal clung to him with a

  wildness that gave him anxiety for her reason; there was something

  almost fierce in the tension of her arms, in the blind groping for his

  face.

  "Mescal! It's Jack, safe and well," he said. "Let me look at you."

  At the sound of his voice all her rigid strength changed to a yielding

  weakness; she leaned back supported by his arms and looked at him. Hare

  trembled before the dusky level glance he remembered so well, and as

  tears began to flow he drew her head to his shoulder. He had forgotten

  to prepare himself for a different Mescal. Despite the quivering smile

  of happiness, her eyes were strained with pain. The oval contour, the

  rich bloom of her face had gone; beauty was there still, but it was the

  ghost of the old beauty.

  "Jack--is it--really you?" she asked.

  He answered with a kiss.

  She slipped out of his arms breathless and scarlet. "Tell me all--"

  "There's much to tell, but not before you kiss me. It has been more than

  a year."

  "Only a year! Have I been gone only a year?"

  "Yes, a year. But it's past now. Kiss me, Mescal. One kiss will pay for

  that long year, though it broke my heart."

  Shyly she raised her hands to his shoulders and put her lips to his.

  "Yes, you've found me, Jack, thank God! just in time!"

  "Mescal! What's wrong? Aren't you well?"

  "Pretty well. But if you had not come soon I should have starved."

  "Starved? Let me get my saddle-bags--I have bread and meat."

  "Wait. I'm not so hungry now. I mean very soon I should not have had any

  food at all."

  "But your peon--the dumb Indian? Surely he could find something to eat.

  What of him? Where is he?"

  "My peon is dead. He has been dead for months, I don't know how many."

  "Dead! What was the matter with him?"

  "I never knew. I found him dead one morning and I buried him in the

  sand."

  Mescal led Hare under the cottonwoods and pointed to the Indian's grave,

  now green with grass. Farther on in a circle of trees stood a little

  hogan skilfully constructed out of brush; the edge of a red blanket

  peeped from the door; a burnt-out fire smoked on a stone fireplace, and

  blackened earthen vessels lay near. The white seeds of the cottonwoods

  were flying light as feathers; plum-trees were pink in blossom; there

  were vines twining all about; through the openings in the foliage shone

  the blue of sky and red of cliff. Patches of blossoming Bowers were here

  and there lit to brilliance by golden shafts of sunlight. The twitter of

  birds and hum of bees were almost drowned in the soft roar of water.

  "Is that the Colorado I hear?" asked Hare.

  "No, that's Thunder River. The Colorado is farther down in the Grand

  Canyon."

  "Farther down! Mescal, I must have come a mile from the rim. Where are

  we?"

  "We are almost at the Colorado, and directly under the head of Coconina.

  We can see the mountain from the break in the valley below."

  "Come sit by me here under this tree. Tell me--how did you ever get

  here?"

  Then Mescal told him how the peon had led her on a long trail from

  Bitter Seeps, how they had camped at desert waterholes, and on the

  fourth day descended to Thunder River.

  "I was quite happy at first. It's always summer down here. There were

  rabbits, birds, beaver, and fruit--we had enough to eat. I explored the

  valley with Wolf or rode Noddle up and down the canyon. Then my peon

  died, and I had to shift for myself. There came a time when the beaver

  left the valley, and Wolf and I had to make a rabbit serve for days. I

  knew then I'd have to get across the desert to the Navajos or starve in

  the canyon. I hesitated about climbing out into the desert, for I wasn't

  sure of the trail to the waterholes. Noddle wandered off up the canyon

  and never came back. After he was gone and I knew I couldn't get out I

  grew homesick. The days weren't so bad because I was always hunting for

  something to eat, but the nights were lonely. I couldn't sleep. I lay

  awake listening to the river, and at last I could hear whispering and

  singing and music, and strange sounds, and low thunder, always low

  thunder. I wasn't really frightened, only lonely, and the canyon was so

  black and full of mutterings. Sometimes I'd dream I was back on the

  plateau with you, Jack, and Bolly and the sheep, and when I'd awake in

  the loneliness I'd cry right out--"

  "Mescal, I heard those cries," said Hare.

  "It was strange--the way I felt. I believe if I'd never known and--and

  loved you, Jack, I'd have forgotten home. After I'd been here a while, I

  seemed to be drifting, drifting. It was as if I had lived in the canyon

  long before, and was remembering. The feeling was strong, but always

  thoughts of you, and of the big world, brought me back to the present

  with its loneliness and fear of starvation. Then I wanted you, and I'd

  cry out. I knew I must send Wolf home. How hard it was to make him go!

  But at last he trotted off, looking backward, and I--waited and waited."

  She leaned against him. The hand which had plucked at his sleeve dropped

  to his fingers and clung there. Hare knew how her story had slighted the

  perils and privations of that long year. She had grown lonely in the

  canyon darkness; she had sent Wolf away and had waited--all was said in

  that. But more than any speech, the look of her, and the story told in

  the thin brown hands touched his heart. Not for an instant since his

  arrival had she altogether let loose of his fingers, or coat, or arm.

  She had lived so long alone in this weird world of silence and moving

  shadows and murmuring water, that she needed to feel the substance of

  her hopes, to assure herself of the reality of the man she loved.

  "My mustang--Bolly--tell me of her," said Mescal.

  "Bolly's fine. Sleek and fat and lazy! She's been in the fields ever

  since you left. Not a bridle on her. Many times have I seen her poke her

  black muzzle over the fence and look down the lane. She'd never forget

  you, Mescal."

  "Oh! how I want to see her! Tell me--everything."

  "Wait a little. Let me fetch Silvermane and we'll make a fire and eat.

  Then--"

  "Tell me now."

  "Well, Mescal, it's soon told." Then came the story of events growing

  out of her flight. When he told of the shooting at Silver Cup, Mescal

  rose with heaving bosom and blazing eyes.

  "It was nothing--I wasn't hurt much. Only the intention was bad. We saw

  no more of Snap or Holderness. The worst of it all was that Snap's wife

  died."

  "Oh, I am sorry--sorry. Poor Father Naab! How he must hate me, the cause

  of it all! But I couldn't stay--I couldn't marry Snap."

  "Don't bla
me yourself, Mescal. What Snap might have done if you had

  married him is guesswork. He might have left drink alone a while longer.

  But he was bad clean through. I heard Dave Naab tell him that. Snap

  would have gone over to Holderness sooner or later. And now he's a

  rustler, if not worse."

  "Then those men think Snap killed you?"

  "Yes."

  "What's going to happen when you meet Snap, or any of them?"

  "Somebody will be surprised," replied Hare, with a laugh.

  "Jack,

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