Desert Heritage

by Zane Grey

  “Wait,” said August soberly.

  They rode out of the gray pocket in the ridge and began to climb. Hare had not noticed the rise till they were started, and then, as the horses climbed steadily, he grew impatient at the monotonous ascent. There was nothing to see; frequently it seemed that they were soon to reach the summit, but still it rose above them. Hare went back to his comfortable place on the sacks.

  “Now, Jack,” said August.

  Hare gasped. He saw a red world. His eyes seemed bathed in blood. Red scaly ground, bare of vegetation, sloped down, down, far down to a vast irregular rent in the earth, which zigzagged through the plain beneath. To the right it bent its crooked way under the brow of a black-timbered plateau, and to the left it straightened its angles to find a V-shaped vent in the wall, now uplifted to a mountain range. Beyond this earth-riven line lay something vast and illimitable, a far-reaching vision of white wastes, of purple plains, of low mesas lost in distance. It was the shimmering dust-veiled desert.

  “Here we come to the real thing,” explained Naab. “This is Windy Slope . . . that black line is the Grand Cañon of Arizona . . . on the other side is the Painted Desert where the Navajos live . . . Coconina Mountain shows his flat head there to the right, and the wall on our left rises to the Vermilion Cliffs. Now, look while you can, for presently you’ll not be able to see.”

  “Why?”

  “Wind, sand, dust, gravel, pebbles . . . watch out for your eyes.”

  Naab had not ceased speaking when Hare saw that the train of Indians trailing down the slope was enveloped in red clouds. Then the white wagons disappeared. Soon he was struck in the back by a gust that justified Naab’s warning. It swept by; the air grew clear again; once more he could see. But presently a puff, taking him unawares, filled his eyes with dust difficult of removal. Whereupon he turned his back to the wind.

  The afternoon grew apace; the sun glistened on the white patches of Coconina Mountain; it set, and the wind died.

  “Five miles of red sand,” said Naab. “Here’s what kills the horses. Get up.”

  There was no trail. All before was red sand, hollows, slopes, levels, dunes, in which the horses sank above their fetlocks. The wheels plowed deep, and little red streams trailed down from the tires. Naab trudged on foot with the reins in his hands. Hare essayed to walk, also, soon tired, and floundered behind till Naab ordered him to ride again. Twilight came with the horses still toiling.

  “There! Thankful I am when we get off that strip. But, Jack, that trailless waste prevents a night raid on my home. Even the Navajos shun it after dark. We’ll be home soon. There’s my sign. See. Night or day we call it the Blue Star.”

  High in the black cliff a star-shaped, wind-worn hole let the blue sky through.

  There was cheer in Naab’s—“Get up!”—now, and the horse quickened with it. Their iron-shod hoofs struck fire from the rocky road. “Easy, easy . . . soho!” cried Naab to his steeds. In the pitchy blackness under the shelving cliff they picked their way cautiously, and turned a corner. Lights twinkled in Hare’s sight, a fresh breeze, coming from water, dampened his cheek, and a hollow rumble, a long roll as of distant thunder, filled his ears.

  “What’s that?” he asked.

  “That, my lad, is what I always love to hear. It means I’m home. It’s the roar of the Colorado as she takes her first plunge into the cañon.”

  Chapter Four

  August Naab’s oasis was an oval valley, level as a floor, green with leaf and white with blossom, enclosed by a circle of colossal cliffs of vivid vermilion hue. At its western curve the Colorado River split the red walls from north to south. When the wind was west a sullen roar, remote as of some far-off driving mill, filled the valley; when it was east a dreamy hollow hum, a somnolent song, murmured through the cottonwoods; when no wind stirred, silence reigned, a silence not of serene plain or mountain fastness, but shut in, compressed, strange, and breathless. Safe from the storms of the elements as well as of the world was this Garden of Eschtah.

  Naab had put Hare to bed on the unroofed porch of a log house, but routed him out early, and, when Hare lifted the blankets, a shower of cotton-blossoms drifted away like snow. A grove of graybarked trees spread green canopy overhead, and through the intricate web shone crimson walls, soaring with resistless onsweep up and up to shut out all but a blue lake of sky.

  “I want you to see the Navajos cross the river,” said Naab.

  Hare accompanied him out through the grove to a road that flanked the first rise of the red wall; they followed this for half a mile and, turning a corner, came into an unobstructed view. A roar of rushing waters had prepared Hare, but the river that he saw appalled him. It was red and swift; it slid onward like an enormous slippery snake; its constricted head raised a crest of leaping waves, and disappeared in a dark chasm, whence came a bellow and boom.

  “That opening where she jumps off is the head of the Grand Cañon,” said Naab. “It’s five hundred feet deep there, and thirty miles below it’s five thousand. Oh, once in, she tears in a hurry. Come, we turn up the bank here.”

  Hare could find no speech, and he felt immeasurably small. All that he had seen in reaching this isolated spot was dwarfed in comparison. This Crossing of the Fathers, as Naab called it, was the gateway of the desert. This roar of turbulent waters was the sinister monotone of the mighty desert symphony of great depths, great heights, great reaches.

  On a sandy strip of bank the Navajos had halted. This was as far as they could go, for above the wall jutted out into the river. From here the head of the cañon was not visible, and the roar of the rapids was accordingly lessened in volume. But even in this smooth water the river spoke a warning.

  “The Navajos go in here and swim their mustangs across to that sandbar,” explained Naab. “The current helps when she’s high, and there’s a three-foot raise on now.”

  “I can’t believe it possible. What danger they must run . . . those little mustangs!” exclaimed Hare.

  “Danger? Yes, I suppose so,” replied Naab, as if it were a new idea. “My lad, the Mormons crossed here by the hundreds. Many were drowned. This trail and crossing were unknown except to Indians before the Mormon exodus.”

  The mustangs had to be driven into the water. Scarbreast led, and his mustang, after many kicks and reluctant steps, went over his depth, wetting the stalwart chief to the waist. Bare-legged Indians waded in and urged their pack ponies. Shouts, shrill cries, blows mingled with snorts and splashes.

  Dave and George Naab in flatboats rowed slowly on the downstream side of the Indians. Presently all the mustangs and ponies were in, the procession widening out in a triangle from Scarbreast, the leader. The pack ponies appeared to swim better than the mounted mustangs, or else the packs of deer pelts made them more buoyant. When one-third way across, the head of the swimming train met the current, and the line of progress broke. Mustang after mustang swept down with a rapidity that showed the power of the current. Yet they swam steadily with flanks shining, tails sometimes afloat, sometimes under, noses up, and riders holding weapons aloft. But the pack ponies labored when the current struck them, and, whirling about, they held back the Indians who were leading them, and blocked those behind. The orderly procession of the start became a broken line, and then a rout. Here and there a Navajo slipped into the water and swam, leading his mustang; others pulled on pack ponies and beat their mounts; strong-swimming mustangs forged ahead; weak ones hung back, and all obeyed the downward will of the current.

  While Hare feared for the lives of some of the Navajos, and pitied the laden ponies, he could not but revel in the scene, in its vivid action and varying color, in the cries and shrill whoops of the Indians, and the snorts of the frightened mustangs, in Naab’s hoarse yells to his sons, and the ever-present menacing roar from around the bend. The wildness of it all, the necessity of peril and calm acceptance of it, stirred within Hare the call, the awakening, the spirit of the desert.

  August Naab’s stentorian
voice rolled out over the river. “Ho! Dave . . . the yellow pinto . . . pull him loose . . . George, back this way . . . there’s a pack slipping . . . down now, downstream, turn that straggler in . . . Dave, in that tangle . . . quick! There’s a boy drowning . . . his foot’s caught . . . he’s been kicked . . . . Hurry! Hurry . . . pull him in the boat . . . . There’s a pony under . . . . Too late, George, let that one go . . . let him go, I tell you!”

  So the crossing of the Navajos proceeded, never an instant free from danger in that churning current. The mustangs and ponies floundered somewhat on the sandbar, and then parted the willows and appeared on a trail skirting the red wall. Dave Naab moored his boat on that side of the river, and returned with George.

  “We’ll look over my farm,” said August as they retraced their steps. He led Hare through fields of alfalfa, in all stages of growth, explaining that it yielded six crops a year. Into one ten-acre lot pigs and cows had been turned to feed at will. Everywhere the ground was soggy; little streams of water trickled down ditches. Next to the fields was an orchard, where cherries were ripe, apricots already large, plum trees shedding their blossoms, and apple trees just opening into bloom. Naab explained that the products of his oasis were abnormal; the ground was exceedingly rich and could be kept always wet; the reflection of the sun from the walls robbed even winter of any rigor, and the spring, summer, and autumn were tropical. He pointed to grapevines as large as a man’s thigh and told of bunches of grapes four feet long; he showed sprouting plants on which watermelons and pumpkins would grow so large that one man could not lift them; he told of one pumpkin that held a record of taking two men to roll it.

  “I can raise any kind of fruit in such abundance that it can’t be used. My garden is prodigal. But we get little benefit, except for our own use, for we cannot transport things across the desert.”

  The water that was the prime factor in all this richness came from a small stream that Naab, by making a dam and tunneling a corner of cliff, had diverted from its natural course into his oasis.

  Between the fence and the red wall there was a wide bare plain that stretched to the house. At its farthest end was a green enclosure, which Hare recognized as the cemetery mentioned by Snap. Hare counted thirty graves, a few with crude monuments of stone, the others marked by wooden headpieces.

  “I’ve the reputation of doctoring the women, and letting the men die,” said Naab, with a smile. “I hardly think it’s fair. But the fact is no women are buried here. Some graves are of men I fished out of the river . . . others of those who drifted here, and who were killed or died keeping their secrets. I’ve numbered those unknown graves and have kept a description of the men, so, if the chance ever comes, I may tell someone where a father or brother lies buried. Five sons of mine, not one of whom died a natural death, found graves here . . . God rest them. Here’s the grave of Mescal’s father, a Spaniard. He was an adventurer. I helped him over in Nevada when he was ill . . . he came here with me, got well, and lived nine years, and he died without speaking one word of himself or telling his name.”

  “What strange ends men come to,” mused Hare. Well, a grave was a grave, wherever it lay. He wondered if he would come to rest in that quiet nook, with its steady light, its simple dignity of bare plain graves fitting the brevity of life, the littleness of man.

  “We break wild mustangs along this stretch,” said Naab, drawing Hare away. “It’s a fine run. Wait till you see Mescal on Black Bolly tearing up the dust! She’s a Navajo for riding.”

  Three huge corrals filled a wide curved space in the wall. In one corral were the teams that had hauled the wagons from White Sage, in another upward of thirty burros, drooping, lazy little fellows, half asleep, and in the third a dozen or more mustangs and some horses that delighted Hare. Snap Naab’s cream pinto, a bay, and a giant horse of mottled white attracted him most.

  “Our best stock is out on the range,” said Naab. “The white is Charger, my saddle horse. When he was a yearling, he got away and ran wild for three years. But we caught him. He’s a weight carrier and he can run some. You’re fond of a horse . . . I can see that.”

  “Yes,” returned Hare, “but I . . . I’ll never ride again.” He said it brightly, smiling the while, still the look in his eyes belied the cheerful resignation.

  “I’ve not the gift of revelation, yet I seem to see you on a big gray horse with a shining mane.” Naab appeared to be gazing far away.

  The cottonwood grove, at the western curve of the oasis, shaded the five log huts where August’s grown sons lived with their wives, and his own cabin, which was of considerable dimensions. It had a covered porch on one side, an open one on the other, a shingle roof, and was a roomy and comfortable habitation.

  Naab was pointing out the schoolhouse when he was interrupted by childish laughter, shrieks of glee, and the rush of little feet.

  “It’s recess time,” he said.

  A frantic crowd of tousled-headed little ones was running from the log schoolhouse to form a circle under the trees. There were fourteen of them, from four years of age up to ten or twelve. Such sturdy, glad-eyed children Hare had never seen. In a few moments, as though their happy screams were signals, the shady circle was filled with hounds, and a string of puppies stepping on their long ears, and ruffling turkey gobblers, that gobbled and gobbled, and guinea hens with their shrill cries, and cackling chickens and a lame wild goose that hobbled along alone. Then there were shiny peafowls screeching clarion calls from the trees overhead, and flocks of singing blackbirds, and pigeons hovering over and alighting upon the house. Last to approach were a woolly sheep that added his baa-baa to the din, and a bald-faced burro that walked in his sleep. These two became the center of clamor. After many tumbles four chubby youngsters mounted the burro, and the others, with loud acclaim, shouting— “Noddle, Noddle, get up, get up!”—endeavored to make him go. But Noddle nodded and refused to awaken or budge. Then an ambitious urchin of six fastened his hands in the fur of the sheep and essayed to climb to his back. Willing hands assisted him. “Ride him, Billy, ride him. Get up, Navvy, get up!”

  Navvy evidently had never been ridden, for he began a fair imitation of a bucking bronco. Billy held on, but the smile vanished and the corners of his mouth drew down.

  “Hang on, Billy, hang on!” cried August Naab in delight. Billy hung on a moment longer, and then Navvy, bewildered by the pestering crowd about him, launched out and, butting into Noddle, spilled the four youngsters, and Billy, also, into a wriggling heap.

  This recess time completed Hare’s introduction to the Naabs. There were Mother Mary, and Judith and Esther, who he knew, and Mother Ruth and her two daughters, very like their sisters. Mother Ruth, August’s second wife, was younger than Mother Mary, more comely of face, and more sad and serious of expression. The wives of the five sons, except Snap Naab’s frail bride, were stalwart women, fit to make homes and rear children.

  “Now, Jack, things are moving all right,” said August. “For the present you must eat and rest. Walk some, but don’t tire yourself. We’ll practice shooting a little every day . . . that’s one thing I’ll spare time for. I’ve a trick with a gun to teach you. And if you feel able, take a burro and ride. Anyway, make yourself at home.”

  Hare found eating and resting to be matters of profound enjoyment. Before he had fallen in with these good people, it had been a year since he had sat down to a full meal, longer still since he had eaten wholesome food. And now he had come to “a land overflowing with milk and honey,” as Mother Ruth smilingly said. He could not choose between roast beef and chicken, and so he waived the question by taking both, and what with the biscuits and butter, applesauce and blackberry jam, cherry pie and milk like cream, there was danger of making himself ill. He told his friends that he simply could not help it, which shameless confession brought a hearty laugh from August and beaming smiles from his womenfolk.

  For several days Hare was remarkably well, for an invalid. He won golden praise from August at the
rifle practice, and he began to take lessons in the quick drawing and rapid firing of a Colt revolver. Naab was wonderfully proficient in the use of both firearms, and his skill in drawing the smaller weapon, in which his movement was quicker than the eye, astonished Hare. “My lad,” said August, “it doesn’t follow because I’m a Christian that I don’t know how to handle a gun. Besides, I like to shoot.”

  In these few days Hare learned what conquering the desert made of a man. August Naab was close to threescore years; his chest was wide as a door, his arm like the branch of an oak. He was a blacksmith, a mechanic, a carpenter, a cooper, a potter. At his forge and in his shop, everywhere were crude tools, wagons, farming implements, sets of buckskin harness, odds and ends of nameless things, eloquent and pregnant proof of the fact that necessity is the mother of invention. He was a mason—the levee that buffeted back the rage of the Colorado in flood, the wall that turned the creek, the irrigation tunnel, the zigzag trail cut on the face of the cliff—all these attested his eye for line, his judgment of distance, his strength in toil. He was a farmer, a cattleman, a grafter of fruit trees, a breeder of horses, a herder of sheep, a preacher, a physician. Best and strangest of all in this wonderful man was the instinct and the heart to heal. “I don’t combat the doctrine of the Mormon church,” he said, “but I administer a little medicine with my healing. I learned that from the Navajos.” The children ran to him with bruised heads, and cut fingers, and stubbed toes, and his blacksmith’s hands were as gentle as a woman’s. A mustang with a lame leg claimed his serious attention; a sick sheep gave him an anxious look; a steer with a gored skin sent him running for a bucket of salve. He could not pass by a crippled quail. The farm was overrun by Navajo sheep that he had found strayed and lost on the desert. Anything hurt or helpless had in August Naab a friend. Hare found himself looking up to a great and luminous figure, and he loved this man.