by Zane Grey
outward from his left hip. He ordered his sons to replenish the
fire which had been built in the circle, and when the fierce-eyed
Indians gathered round the blaze he called to his women to bring meat
and drink.
Hare's unnatural calmness had prevailed until he saw Naab stride out to
front the waiting Indians. Then a ripple of cold passed over him. He
leaned against a tree in the shadow and watched the gray-faced giant
stalking to and fro before his Indian friends. A long while he strode in
the circle of light to pause at length before the chieftains and to
break the impressive silence with his deep voice.
"Eschtah sees before him a friend stung to his heart. Men of his own
color have long injured him, yet have lived. The Mormon loved his
fellows and forgave. Five sons he laid in their graves, yet his heart
was not hardened. His first-born went the trail of the fire-water and is
an outcast from his people. Many enemies has he and one is a chief. He
has killed the white man's friends, stolen his cattle, and his water.
To-day the white man laid another son in his grave. What thinks the
chief? Would he not crush the scorpion that stung him?"
The old Navajo answered in speech which, when translated, was as stately
as the Mormon's.
"Eschtah respects his friend, but he has not thought him wise. The White
Prophet sees visions of things to come, but his blood is cold. He asks
too much of the white man's God. He is a chief; he has an eye like the
lightning, an arm strong as the pine, yet he has not struck. Eschtah
grieves. He does not wish to shed blood for pleasure. But Eschtah's
friend has let too many selfish men cross his range and drink at his
springs. Only a few can live on the desert. Let him who has found the
springs and the trails keep them for his own. Let him who came too late
go away to find for himself, to prove himself a warrior, or let his
bones whiten in the sand. The Navajo counsels his white friend to kill."
"The great Eschtah speaks wise words," said Naab. "The White Prophet is
richer for them. He will lay aside the prayers to his unseeing God, and
will seek his foe."
"It is well."
"The white man's foe is strong," went on the Mormon; "he has many men,
they will fight. If Eschtah sends his braves with his friend there will
be war. Many braves will fall. The White Prophet wishes to save them if
he can. He will go forth alone to kill his foe. If the sun sets four
times and the white man is not here, then Eschtah will send his great
war-chief and his warriors. They will kill whom they find at the white
man's springs. And thereafter half of all the white man's cattle that
were stolen shall be Eschtah's, so that he watch over the water and
range."
"Eschtah greets a chief," answered the Indian. "The White Prophet knows
he will kill his enemy, but he is not sure he will return. He is not
sure that the little braves of his foe will fly like the winds, yet he
hopes. So he holds the Navajo back to the last. Eschtah will watch the
sun set four times. If his white friend returns he will rejoice. If he
does not return the Navajo will send his warriors on the trail."
August Naab walked swiftly from the circle of light into the darkness;
his heavy steps sounded on the porch, and in the hallway. His three sons
went toward their cabins with bowed heads and silent tongues. Eschtah
folded his blanket about him and stalked off into the gloom of the
grove, followed by his warriors.
Hare remained in the shadow of the cottonwood where he had stood
unnoticed. He had not moved a muscle since he had heard August Naab's
declaration. That one word of Naab's intention, "Alone!" had arrested
him. For it had struck into his heart and mind. It had paralyzed him
with the revelation it brought; for Hare now knew as he had never known
anything before, that he would forestall August Naab, avenge the death
of Dave, and kill the rustler Holderness. Through blinding shock he
passed slowly into cold acceptance of his heritage from the desert.
The two long years of his desert training were as an open page to Hare's
unveiled eyes. The life he owed to August Naab, the strength built up by
the old man's knowledge of the healing power of plateau and range--these
lay in a long curve between the day Naab had lifted him out of the White
Sage trail and this day of the Mormon's extremity. A long curve with
Holderness's insulting blow at the beginning, his murder of a beloved
friend at the end! For Hare remembered the blow, and never would he
forget Dave's last words. Yet unforgetable as these were, it was duty
rather than revenge that called him. This was August Naab's hour of
need. Hare knew himself to be the tool of inscrutable fate; he was the
one to fight the old desert-scarred Mormon's battle. Hare recalled how
humbly he had expressed his gratitude to Naab, and the apparent
impossibility of ever repaying him, and then Naab's reply: "Lad, you can
never tell how one man may repay another." Hare could pay his own debt
and that of the many wanderers who had drifted across the sands to find
a home with the Mormon. These men stirred in their graves, and from out
the shadow of the cliff whispered the voice of Mescal's nameless father:
"Is there no one to rise up for this old hero of the desert?"
Softly Hare slipped into his room. Putting on coat and belt and catching
up his rifle he stole out again stealthily, like an Indian. In the
darkness of the wagon-shed he felt for his saddle, and finding it, he
groped with eager hands for the grain-box; raising the lid he filled a
measure with grain, and emptied it into his saddle-bag. Then lifting the
saddle he carried it out of the yard, through the gate and across the
lane to the corrals. The wilder mustangs in the far corral began to kick
and snort, and those in the corral where Black Bolly was kept trooped
noisily to the bars. Bolly whinnied and thrust her black muzzle over the
fence. Hare placed a caressing hand on her while he waited listening and
watching. It was not unusual for the mustangs to get restless at any
time, and Hare was confident that this would pass without investigation.
Gradually the restless stampings and suspicious snortings ceased, and
Hare, letting down the bars, led Bolly out into the lane. It was the
work of a moment to saddle her; his bridle hung where he always kept it,
on the pommel, and with nimble fingers he shortened the several straps
to fit Bolly's head, and slipped the bit between her teeth. Then he put
up the bars of the gate.
Before mounting he stood a moment thinking coolly, deliberately
numbering the several necessities he must not forget--grain for Bolly,
food for himself, his Colt and Winchester, cartridges, canteen, matches,
knife. He inserted a hand into one of his saddle-bags expecting to find
some strips of meat. The bag was empty. He felt in the other one, and
under the grain he found what he sought. The canteen lay in the coil of
his lasso tied to the saddle, and its heavy canvas covering was damp to
his touch. With that he th
rust the long Winchester into its saddle-
sheath, and swung his leg over the mustang.
The house of the Naabs was dark and still. The dying council-fire cast
flickering shadows under the black cottonwoods where the Navajos slept.
The faint breeze that rustled the leaves brought the low sullen roar of
the river.
Hare guided Bolly into the thick dust of the lane, laid the bridle
loosely on her neck for her to choose the trail, and silently rode out
into the lonely desert night.
XIX. UNLEASHED
HARE, listening breathlessly, rode on toward the gateway of the cliffs,
and when he had passed the corner of the wall he sighed in relief.
Spurring Bolly into a trot he rode forward with a strange elation. He
had slipped out of the oasis unheard, and it would be morning before
August Naab discovered his absence, perhaps longer before he divined his
purpose. Then Hare would have a long start. He thrilled with something
akin to fear when he pictured the old man's rage, and wondered what
change it would
