by Zane Grey
Naab laughed, and, while Hare ate breakfast, he talked of the sheep. The flock he had numbered three thousand. They were a goodly part of them Navajo stock—small, hardy sheep that could live on anything but cactus, and needed little water. This flock had grown from a small number to its present size in a few years. Being remarkably free from the diseases and pests that retard increase in low countries, the sheep had multiplied almost one for one every year. But for the ravages of wild beasts Naab believed he could raise a flock of many thousands and in a brief time be rich in sheep alone. In the winter he drove them down into the oasis; the other seasons he herded them on the high ranges where the cattle could not climb. There was grass enough on this plateau for a million sheep. After the spring thaw in early March, occasional snows fell till the end of May, and frost hung on until early summer, then the July rains made the plateau a garden.
“Get the Forty-Four,” concluded Naab, “and we’ll go out and break it in.”
With the long rifle in the hollow of his arm Jack forgot that he was a sick man. When he came within gunshot of the flock, the smell of sheep effectually smothered the keen, tasty odor of black sage and juniper. Sheep ranged everywhere under the low cedars. They browsed with noses in the frost, and from all around came the tinkle of tiny bells on the curly-horned rams, and an endless variety of bleats.
“They’re spread now,” said August. “Mescal drives them on every little while and Paiute goes ahead to pick out the best browse. Watch the dog, Jack . . . he’s all but human. His mother was a big shepherd dog that I got in Lund. She must have had a strain of wild blood. Once while I was hunting deer on Coconina, she ran off with timber wolves and we thought she was killed. But she came back and had a litter of three puppies. Two were white, the other black. I think she killed the black one. And she neglected the others. One died, and Mescal raised the other. We called him Wolf. He loves Mescal, and loves the sheep, and hates a wolf. Mescal puts a bell on him when she is driving, and the sheep know the bell. I think it would be a good plan for her to tie something red round his neck . . . a scarf, so as to keep you from shooting him for a wolf.”
Nimble, alert, the big white dog was not still a moment. His duty was to keep the flock compact, to head the stragglers and turn them back, and he knew his part perfectly. There was dash and fire in his work. He never barked. As he circled the flock, the small Navajo sheep, edging ever toward forbidden ground, bleated their way back to the fold, the larger ones wheeled reluctantly, and the old belled rams squared themselves, lowering their massive horns as if to butt him. Never, however, did they stand their ground when he reached them, for there was a decision about Wolf that brooked no opposition. At times when he was working on one side a crafty sheep on the other would steal out into the thicket. Then Mescal called and Wolf flashed back to her, lifting his proud head, eager, spirited, ready to take his order. A word, a wave of her whip sufficed for the dog to rout out the recalcitrant sheep and send him bleating to his fellows.
“He manages them easily now,” said Naab, “but, when the lambs come, they can’t be kept in. The coyotes and wolves hang out in the thickets and pick up the stragglers. The worst enemy of sheep, though, is the old grizzly bear. Usually he is grouchy, and dangerous to hunt. He comes into the herd, kills the mother sheep, and eats the milk bag . . . no more! He will kill forty sheep in a night. Paiute saw the tracks of one up on the high range, and believes this bear is following the flock. Let’s get off into the woods some little way, into the edge of the thickets . . . for Paiute always keeps to the glades . . . and see if we can pick off a few coyotes.”
August cautioned Jack to step stealthily, and slip from cedar to cedar, to use every bunch of sage and juniper to hide his advance.
“Watch sharp, Jack. I’ve seen two already. Look for moving things. Don’t try to see one quiet, for you can’t till after your eye catches him moving. They are gray, gray as the cedars, the grass, the ground. Good! Yes, I see him, but don’t shoot. That’s too far. Wait. They sneak away, but they return. You can afford to make sure. Here now, by that stone . . . aim low and be quick.”
In the course of a mile, without keeping the sheep near at hand, they saw upward of twenty coyotes, five of which Jack killed in as many shots.
“You’ve got the hang of it,” said Naab, rubbing his hands. “You’ll kill the varmints. Paiute will skin and salt the pelts. Now I’m going up on the high range to look for bear sign. Go ahead, on your own hook.”
Hare was regardless of time while he stole under the cedars and through the thickets, spying out the cunning coyotes. Then Naab’s yell pealing out claimed his attention; he answered and returned. When they met, he recounted his adventures in mingled excitement and disappointment.
“Are you tired?” asked Naab.
“Tired? No,” replied Jack.
“Well, you mustn’t overdo the very first day. I’ve news for you. There are some wild horses on the high range. I didn’t see them, but found tracks everywhere. If they come down here, you send Paiute to close the trail at the upper end of the bench, and you close the one where we came up. There are only two trails where even a deer can get off this plateau, and both are narrow splits in the wall, which can be barred by the gates. We made the gates to keep the sheep in, and they’ll serve a turn. If you get the wild horses on the bench, send Paiute for me at once.”
They passed the Indian herding the sheep into a corral built against an uprising ridge of stone. Naab dispatched him to look for the dead coyotes. The three burros were in camp, two wearing empty pack saddles, and Noddle, for once not asleep, was eating from Mescal’s hand.
“Mescal, hadn’t I better take Black Bolly home?” asked August.
“Mayn’t I keep her?”
“She’s yours. But you run a risk. There are wild horses on the range. Will you keep her hobbled?”
“Yes,” replied Mescal reluctantly. “Though I don’t believe Bolly would run off from me.”
“Look out she doesn’t go, hobbles and all. Jack, here’s the other bit of news I have for you. There’s a big grizzly camping on the trail of our sheep. Now what I want to know is . . . shall I leave him to you, or put off work and come up here to wait for him myself ?”
“Why . . .,” said Jack slowly, “whatever you say. If you think you can safely leave him to me . . . I’m willing.”
“A grizzly won’t be pleasant to face. I never knew one of those sheep-killers that wouldn’t run at a man, if wounded.”
“Tell me what to do.”
“If he comes down, it’s more than likely to be after dark. Don’t risk hunting him then. Wait till morning, and put Wolf on his trail. He’ll be up in the rocks, and, by holding in the dog, you may find him asleep in a cave. However, if you happen to meet him by day, do this. Don’t waste any shots. Climb a ledge or tree if one be handy. If not, stand your ground. Get down on your knee and shoot and let him come. Mind you, he’ll grunt when he’s hit, and start for you, and keep coming till he’s dead. Have confidence in yourself and your gun, for you can kill him. Aim low, and shoot steady. If he keeps on coming, there’s always a fatal shot, and that is when he rises. You’ll see a bare spot on his breast. Put a Forty-Four into that, and he’ll go down.”
August had spoken so easily, quite as if he were explaining how to shear a yearling sheep, that Jack’s feelings fluctuated between amazement and laughter. Verily this desert man was stripped of all the false fears of civilization.
“Now, Jack, I’m off. Good bye and good luck. Mescal, look out for him . . . . So-ho! Noddle! Get up! Biscuit!” And with many a cheery word and slap he urged the burros into the forest, where they and his tall form soon disappeared among the trees.
Paiute came stooping toward camp so burdened with coyotes that he could scarcely be seen under the gray pile. With a fervent— “Damn!”—he tumbled them under a cedar, and trotted back into the forest for another load. Jack insisted on assuming his share of the duties about camp, and Mescal assigned him to the task of
gathering firewood, breaking red-hot sticks of wood into small pieces, and raking them into piles of live coals. Then they ate, these two alone. Jack did not do justice to the supper; excitement had robbed him of appetite. He told Mescal how he had crept upon the coyotes, how so many had eluded him, how he had missed a gray wolf. He plied her with questions about the sheep, and wanted to know if there would be more wolves, and if she thought the silvertip would come. He was quite carried away by the events of the day.
The sunset drew him to the rim. Dark clouds were mantling the desert like rolling smoke from a prairie fire. He almost stumbled over Mescal, who sat with her back to a stone. Wolf lay with his head in her lap, and he growled.
“There’s a storm on the desert,” she said. “Those smoky streaks are flying sand. We may have snow tonight. It’s colder, and the wind is north. See, I’ve a blanket. You had better get one.”
He thanked her and went for it. Paiute was eating his supper, and the peon had just come in. The bright campfire was agreeable, yet Hare did not feel cold. But he wrapped himself in a blanket and returned to Mescal and sat beside her. The desert lay indistinct in the foreground, inscrutable beyond; the cañon lost its line in gloom. The solemnity of the scene stilled his unrest, the strange freedom of longings unleashed that day. What had come over him? He shook his head, but with the consciousness of self returned a feeling of fatigue, the burning pain in his chest, the bittersweet smell of black sage and juniper.
“You love this outlook?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Do you sit here often?”
“Every evening.”
“Is it the sunset that you care for, the roar of the river, just being here high above it all?”
“It’s that last, perhaps . . . I don’t know.”
“Haven’t you been lonely?”
“No.”
“You’d rather be here with the sheep than be in Lund or Salt Lake City, as Esther and Judith want to be?”
“Yes.”
Any other reply from her would not have been consistent with the impression she was making on him. As yet he had hardly regarded her as a young girl; she had been part of this beautiful desert land. But he began to see in her a responsive being, influenced by his presence. If the situation was wonderful to him, what must it be for her? Like a shy, illusive creature, unused to men, she was troubled by questions, fearful of the sound of her own voice. Yet in repose, as she watched the lights and shadows, she was serene, unconscious; her dark, quiet glance was dreamy and sad, and in it was the somber, brooding strength of the desert.
Twilight and falling dew sent them back to the camp. Paiute and the peon were skinning coyotes by the blaze of the fire. The night wind had not yet risen; the sheep were quiet; there was no sound save the crackle of burning cedar sticks. Jack began to talk; he had to talk, so, addressing Paiute and the dumb peon, he struck at random into speech, and words flowed with a rush. Paiute approved, for he said—“Damn.”—whenever his intelligence grasped a meaning, and the peon twisted his lips and fixed his diamond eyes upon Hare in rapt gaze. The sound of a voice was welcome to the sentinels of that lonely sheep range. Jack talked of cities, of ships, of people, of simple things in the life he had left, and he discovered that Mescal listened. Not only did she listen; she became absorbed; it was romance to her, fulfillment of her vague dreams. Nor did she seek her tent till he ceased, then with a startled—“Good night.”—she was gone.
From under the snugness of his warm blankets Jack watched out the last wakeful moments of that day of days. A star peeped through the fringe of cedar foliage. The wind sighed, and rose steadily, to sweep over him with breath of ice, with the fragrance of juniper and black sage and a tang of cedar.
But that day was only the beginning of eventful days, of increasing charm, of forgetfulness of self, of time that passed unnoted. Every succeeding day was like its predecessor, only richer. Every day the hoar frost silvered the dawn; the sheep browsed; the coyotes skulked in the thickets; the rifle spoke truer and truer. Every sunset Mescal’s changing eyes mirrored the desert. Every twilight Jack sat beside her in the silence; every night, in the campfire flare, he talked to Paiute and the peon.
The Indians were appreciative listeners, whether they understood Jack or not, but his talk with them was only a pretence. He wished to reveal the outside world to Mescal, and he saw with pleasure that every day she grew more interested.
One evening he was telling of New York City, of the monster buildings where men worked, and of the elevated railways, for the time was the late ’Seventies and they were still a novelty. Then something unprecedented occurred, inasmuch as Paiute earnestly and vigorously interrupted Jack, demanding to have this last strange story made more clear. Jack did his best in gesture and speech, but he had to appeal to Mescal to translate his meaning to the Indian. This Mescal did with surprising fluency. The result, however, was that Paiute took exception to the story of trains carrying people through the air. He lost his grin and regarded Jack with much disfavor. Evidently he was experiencing the bitterness of misplaced trust.
“Heap damn lie!” he exclaimed with a growl, and stalked off into the gloom.
Paiute’s expressive doubt discomfited Hare, but only momentarily, for Mescal’s silvery peal of laughter told him that the incident had brought them closer together. He laughed with her and discovered a well of joyousness behind her reserve. Thereafter he talked directly to Mescal. The ice being broken, she began to ask questions, shyly at first, yet more and more eagerly, until she forgot herself in the desire to learn of cities and people, of women especially—what they wore and how they lived, and all that life meant to them.
The sweetest thing that had ever come to Hare was the teaching of this desert girl. How naïve in her questions and how quick to grasp she was! The reaching out of her mind was like the unfolding of a rose. Evidently the Mormon restrictions had limited her opportunities to learn. But her thought had striven to escape its narrow confines, and now, liberated by sympathy and intelligence, it leaped forth.
Lambing time came late in May, and Mescal, Wolf, Paiute, and Jack knew no rest. Nighttime was safer for the sheep than the day, although the howling of a thousand coyotes made it hideous for the shepherds. All in a day, seemingly, the little fleecy lambs came, as if by magic, and filled the forest with piping bleats. Then they were tottering after their mothers, gamboling at a day’s growth, willful as youth—and the carnage began. Boldly the coyotes darted out of thicket and bush, and many lambs never returned to their mothers. Gaunt shadows hovered always near; the great timber wolves waited in covert for prey. Paiute slept not at all, and the dog’s jaws were flecked with blood morning and night. Jack hung up fifty-four coyotes the second day; the third he let them lie, seventy in number. Many times the rifle barrel burned his hands. His aim grew unerring, so that running brutes in range dropped in their tracks. Many a gray coyote fell with a lamb in his teeth.
One night when sheep and lambs were in the corral, and the shepherds rested around the campfire, the dog rose quivering, sniffed the cold wind, and suddenly bristled with every hair standing erect.
“Wolf !” called Mescal.
The sheep began to bleat. A rippling crash, a splintering of wood, told of an irresistible onslaught on the corral fence.
“Chus . . . chus!” exclaimed Paiute.
Wolf, not heeding Mescal’s cry, flashed like lightning under the cedars. The rush of the sheep pattering across the corral was succeeded by an uproar.
“Bear! Bear!” cried Mescal, with dark eyes on Jack. He seized his rifle.
“Don’t go,” she implored, her hand on his arm. “Not at night . . . remember Father Naab said not.”
“Listen. I won’t stand that. I’ll go. Here, get in the tree . . . quick!”
“No . . . no . . . .”
“Do as I say!” It was a command. The girl wavered. He dropped the rifle and swung her up. “Climb!”
“No . . . don’t go . . . Jack!”
Chapter Six
Paiute’s Indian sense of the advantage of position in attack stood Jack in good stead; he led him up the ledge that overhung one end of the corral. In the pale starlight the sheep could be seen running in bands, massing together, crowding the fence; their cries made a deafening din.
The Indian shouted, but Jack could not understand him. A large black object was visible in the shade of the ledge. Paiute fired his carbine. Before Jack could bring his rifle up, the black thing moved into startlingly rapid flight. Then spouts of red flame illumined the corral. As he shot, Jack got fleeting glimpses of the bear moving like a dark streak against a blur of white. For all he could tell, no bullet took effect.
When certain that the visitor had departed, Jack descended into the corral. He and Paiute searched for dead sheep, but, much to their surprise, found none. If the grizzly had killed one, he must have taken it with him, and, estimating his strength from the gap he had broken in the fence, he could easily have carried off a sheep. They repaired the break and returned to camp.
“He’s gone, Mescal. Come down!” called Jack into the cedar. “Let me help you . . . there. Wasn’t it lucky? He wasn’t so brave. Either the flashes from the guns or the dog scared him. I was amazed to see how fast he could run.”
Paiute found woolly brown fur hanging from Wolf ’s jaws.
“He’s nipped the brute, that’s sure,” said Jack. “Good dog! Maybe he kept the bear from . . . . Why, Mescal . . . you’re white . . . you’re shaking. There’s no danger. Paiute and I’ll take turns watching with Wolf.”
Mescal went silently into her tent.
The sheep quieted down and made no further disturbance that night. The dawn broke gray, with a cold north wind. Dun-colored clouds rolled up, hiding the tips of the crags on the upper range, and a flurry of snow whitened the cedars. After breakfast Jack tried to get Wolf to take the track of the grizzly, but the scent had cooled.
