Desert Heritage

by Zane Grey

  Mescal sorrowed, and Wolf mourned in sympathy with her, for their occupation was gone, but both brightened when August made known his intention to cross the river to the Navajo range, to trade with the Indians for another flock. He began his preparations immediately. The snow freshets had long run out of the river, the water was low, and he wanted to fetch the sheep down before the summer rains. He also wanted to find out what kept his son Snap so long among the Navajos.

  “I’ll take Billy and go at once. Dave, you join George and Zeke out on the Silver Cup range. Take Jack with you. Brand all the cattle you can before the snow flies. Get out of Dene’s way if he rides over, and avoid Holderness’s men. I’ll have no fights. But keep your eyes sharp for their doings.”

  It was a relief to Hare that Snap Naab had not yet returned to the oasis, for he felt a sense of freedom that otherwise would have been lacking. He spent the whole of a long calm summer day in the orchard and the vineyard. The fruit season was at its height. Grapes, plums, pears, melons were ripe and luscious. Midsummer was vacation time for the children, and they flocked into the trees like birds. The girls were picking grapes; Mother Ruth enlisted Jack in her service at the pear trees; Mescal came, too, and caught the golden pears he threw down, and smiled up at him; Wolf was there, and Noddle; Black Bolly pushed her black nose over the fence, and whinnied for apples; the turkeys strutted, the peafowls preened their beautiful plumage, the guinea hens ran like quail. Save for those frowning red cliffs Hare would have forgotten where he was; the warm sun, the yellow fruit, the merry screams of children, the joyous laughter of girls were pleasant reminders of autumn picnic days long gone. But, in the face of those dominating wind-scarred walls, he could not forget.

  That night Hare endeavored to see Mescal alone for a few moments, to see her once more with unguarded eyes, to whisper a few words, to say good bye, but it was impossible.

  On the morrow he rode out of the red cliff gate with Dave and the pack horses, a dull ache in his heart, for amid the cheering crowd of children and women who bade them good bye he had caught the wave of Mescal’s hand and a look of her eyes that would be with him always. What might happen before he returned, if he ever did return? For he knew now, as well as he could feel Silvermane’s easy stride, that out there under the white glare of desert, the white gleam of the slopes of Coconina, was wild life awaiting him. And he shut his teeth, and narrowed his eyes, and faced it with an eager joy that was in strange contrast to the pang in his breast.

  That morning the wind dipped down off the Vermilion Cliffs and whipped west; there was no scent of river water, and Hare thought of the fatality of the sheep drive, when, for one day out of the year, a moistened dank breeze had met the flock on the narrow bench. Soon the bench lay far behind them, and the strip of treacherous sand, and the maze of sculptured cliff under the Blue Star, and the hummocky low ridges beyond, with their dry white washes. Silvermane kept on in front. Already Hare had learned that the gray would have no horse before him. His pace was swift, steady, tireless. Dave was astride his Navajo mount, an Indian-bred horse, half mustang, which had to be held in with a firm rein. The pack train strung out far behind, trotting faithfully along, with the white packs, like the humps of camels, nodding up and down. Jack and Dave slackened their gait at the foot of the stony divide. It was an ascent of miles, so long that it did not appear steep. Here the pack train caught up, and thereafter hung at the heels of the riders.

  From the broad bare summit Jack saw the Silver Cup valley range with eyes that seemed to magnify the winding trail, the long red wall, the green slopes, the dots of sage and cattle. Then he made allowance for months of unobstructed vision; he had learned to see; his eyes had adjusted themselves to distance and dimensions.

  Silver Cup Spring lay in a bright green spot close under a break in the rocky slope that soon lost its gray cliff in the shaggy cedared side of Coconina.

  The camp of the brothers was situated upon this cliff in a split between two sections of wall. Well sheltered from the north and west winds was a grassy plot that afforded a good survey of the valley and the trails. Dave and Jack received glad greetings from Zeke and George, and Silvermane was an object of wonder and admiration. Zeke, who had often seen the gray and chased him, too, walked around and around him, stroking the silver mane, feeling the great chest muscles, slapping his flanks.

  “Well, well, Silvermane, to think I’d live to see you wearing a saddle and bridle! He’s even bigger than I thought. There’s a horse, Hare! Never will be another like him in this desert. If Dene ever sees that horse, he’ll chase him to the Great Salt Basin. Dene’s crazy about fast horses. He’s from Kentucky, somebody said, and knows a horse when he sees one.”

  “How are things?” queried Dave.

  “We can’t complain much,” replied Zeke, “though we’ve wasted some time on old Whitefoot. He’s been chasing our horses. It’s been pretty hot and dry. Most of the cattle are on the slopes . . . fair browse yet. There’s a bunch of steers gone up on the mountain, and some more around toward the Saddle or the cañon.”

  “Been over Seeping Springs way?”

  “Yes. No change since your trip. Holderness’s cattle are ranging in the upper valley. George found tracks near the spring. We believe somebody was watching there and made off when we came up.”

  “We’ll see Holderness’s men when we get to riding out,” put in George. “And some of Dene’s, too. Zeke met Two-Spot Chance and Culver below at the spring one day, sort of surprised them.”

  “What day was that?”

  “Let’s see, this’s Friday. It was last Monday.”

  “What were they doing over here?”

  “Said they were tracking a horse that had broken his hobbles. But they seemed uneasy, and soon rode off.”

  “Did either of them ride a horse with one shoe shy?”

  “Now I think of it, yes. Zeke noticed the track at the spring.”

  “Well, Chance and Culver had been out our way,” declared Dave. “I saw their tracks, and they filled up the Blue Star water hole . . . and cost us three thousand sheep.”

  Then he related the story of the drive of the sheep, the finding of the plugged water hole, the scent of the Colorado, and the plunge of the sheep into the cañon.

  “We’ve saved one . . . Mescal’s belled lamb,” he concluded.

  Neither Zeke nor George had a word in reply. Hare thought their silence unnatural. Neither did the mask-like stillness of their faces change. But Hare saw in their eyes a pointed clear flame, vibrating like a compass needle, a mere glimmering spark.

  “I’d like to know,” continued Dave, calmly poking the fire, “who hired Dene’s men to plug the water hole. Dene couldn’t do that. He loves a horse, and any man who loves a horse couldn’t fill a water hole in this desert.”

  Hare entered upon his new duties as a range rider with a zeal that almost made up for his lack of experience; he bade fair to develop into a right-hand man for Dave, under whose watchful eye he worked. His natural qualifications were soon shown; he could ride, although his seat was awkward and clumsy compared to that of the desert rangers, a fault that Dave said would correct itself as time fitted him close to the saddle and to the swing of his horse. His sight had become extraordinarily keen for a newcomer on the ranges, and when experience had taught him the landmarks, the trails, the distances, the difference between smoke and dust and haze, when he could distinguish a band of mustangs from cattle, and range riders from outlaws or Indians—in a word, when he had learned to know what it was that he saw, to trust his judgment, he would have acquired the basic feature of a rider’s training. But he showed no gift for the lasso, that other essential requirement of his new calling.

  “It’s funny,” said Dave patiently, “you can’t get the hang of it. Maybe it’s born in a fellow. Now handling a gun seems to come natural for some fellows, and you’re one of them. If only you could get the rope away as quick as you can throw your gun.”

  Jack kept faithfully at it, unm
indful of defeats, often chagrined when he missed some easy opportunity. Not improbably he might have failed altogether if he had been riding an ordinary horse, or if he had to try roping from a fiery mustang. But Silvermane was as intelligent as he was beautiful and fleet. The horse learned rapidly the agile turns and sudden stops necessary, and as for free running he never got enough. Out on the range Silvermane always had his head up and watched; his life had been spent in watching; he saw cattle, riders, mustangs, deer, coyotes, every moving thing. So that Hare, in the chasing of a cow, had but to start Silvermane, and then he could devote himself to the handling of his rope. It took him ten times longer to lasso the cow than it took Silvermane to head the animal. Dave laughed at some of Jack’s exploits, encouraged him often, praised his intent if not his deed and always, after a run, nodded at Silvermane in mute admiration.

  Branding the cows and yearlings and tame steers that watered at Silver Cup, and never wandered far away, was play according to Dave’s version. “Wait till we get after the wild steers up on the mountain and in the cañons,” he would say when Jack dropped like a log at supper. Work it certainly was for him. At night he was so tired that he could scarcely crawl into bed; his back felt as if it were broken; his legs were raw, and his bones ached. Many mornings he thought it impossible to arise, but always he crawled out, grim and haggard, and hobbled round the campfire to warm his sore and bruised muscles. Then when Zeke and George rode in with the horses, the day’s work began. During these weeks of his hardening up, as Dave called it, Hare bore much pain, but he continued well and never missed a day. At the most trying time when for a few days he had to be helped on and off Silvermane—for he insisted that he would not stay in camp—the brothers made his work as light as possible. They gave him the branding outfit to carry, a running iron and a little pot with charcoal and bellows, and with these he followed the riders at a convenient distance and leisurely pace.

  Some days they branded one hundred cattle. By October they had August Naab’s crudely fashioned cross on thousands of cows and steers. Still the stock kept coming down from the mountain, driven to the valley by cold weather and snow-covered grass. It was well into November before the riders finished at Silver Cup, and then arose a question as to whether it would be advisable to go to Seeping Springs or to the cañons farther west along the slope of Coconina. George favored the former, but Dave overruled him.

  “Father’s orders,” he said. “He wants us to ride to Seeping Springs last because he’ll be with us then, and Snap, too. We’re going to have trouble over there.”

  “How’s this branding stock going to help the matter any, I’d like to know?” inquired George. “We Mormons never needed it.”

  “Father says we’ll all have to come to it. Holderness’s stock is branded. Perhaps he’s marked a good many steers of ours. We can’t tell. But if we have our own branded, we’ll know what’s ours. If he drives our stock, we’ll know it . . . if Dene steals, it can be proved that he steals.”

  “Well, what then? Do you think he’ll care for that, or Holderness, either?”

  “No, only it makes this difference . . . both things will then be bare-faced robbery. We’ve never been able to prove anything, though we boys know . . . we don’t need any proof. Father gives these men the benefit of a doubt. We’ve got to stand by him. I know, George, your hand’s begun to itch for your gun. So does mine. But we’ve orders to obey.”

  Many gullies and cañons headed up on the slope of Coconina west of Silver Cup, and ran down to open wide on the flat desert. They contained plots of white sage and bunches of rich grass and cold springs. The steers that ranged these ravines were wild as wolves, and in the tangled thickets of juniper and manzanita and jumbles of weathered cliff they were exceedingly difficult to catch.

  Well it was that Hare had received his initiation and had become inured to rough, incessant work, for now he came to know the real stuff of which these Mormons were made. No obstacle barred them. They penetrated the gullies to the last step; they rode weathered slopes that were difficult for deer to stick upon; they thrashed the bayonet-guarded manzanita copses; they climbed into labyrinthine fastnesses, penetrating to every nook where a steer could hide. Miles of sliding slope and marble-bottomed streambeds were ascended on foot, for cattle could climb where a horse could not. Climbing was arduous enough, yet the hardest and most perilous toil began when a wild steer was cornered. They roped the animals on moving slopes of weathered stone, and branded them on the edges of precipices.

  The days and weeks passed, how many no one counted or cared. The circle of the sun daily lowered over the south end of Coconina, and the black snow clouds crept down the slopes. Frost whitened the ground at dawn, and held half the day in the shade. Winter was close at the heels of the long autumn.

  As for Hare, true to August Naab’s assertion, he had lost flesh and suffered, and, although the process was heart-breaking in its severity, he hung on till he hardened into a leather-lunged, wire-muscled man, capable of keeping pace with his companions.

  He began his day with the dawn when he threw off the frostcoated tarpaulin; the icy water brought him a glow of exhilaration; he drank in the spiced cold air, and there was the spring of the deer hunter in his step as he went down the slope for his horse. He no longer feared that Silvermane would run away. The gray’s bell could always be heard near camp in the mornings, and when Hare whistled there came always the answering thump of hobbled feet. When Silvermane saw him striding through the cedars or across the grassy belt of the valley, he would neigh his gladness. Hare had come to love Silvermane and talked to him and treated him as if he were human.

  When the mustangs were brought into camp the day’s work began, the same work as that of yesterday, and yet with endless variety, with ever-changing situations that called for quick wits, steel arms, stout hearts, and unflagging energies. The darkening blue sky and the suntipped crags of Vermilion Cliffs were signals to start for camp. They ate like wolves, sat for a while around the campfire, a ragged, weary, silent group, and soon lay down, their dark faces in the shadow of the cedars.

  In the beginning of this toil-filled time Hare had resolutely set himself to forget Mescal, and he had succeeded at least for a time, when he was so sore and weary that he scarcely thought at all. But she came back to him, and then there was seldom an hour that was not hers. The long months that seemed years since he had seen her, the change in him wrought by labor and peril, the deepening friendship between him and Dave, even the love he bore Silvermane— these, instead of making dim the memory of the dark-eyed girl, only made him tenderer in his thought of her.

  Snow drove the riders from the cañon camp down to Silver Cup, where they found August Naab and Snap, who had ridden in the day before.

  “Now you couldn’t guess how many cattle are back there in the cañons,” said Dave to his father.

  “I haven’t any idea,” answered August dubiously.

  “Five thousand head.”

  “Dave!” His father’s tone was incredulous.

  “Yes. You know we haven’t been back in there for years. The stock has multiplied rapidly in spite of the lions and wolves. Not only that, but they’re safe from the winter, and are not likely to be found by Dene or anybody else.”

  “How do you make that out?”

  “The first cattle we drove in used to come back here to Silver Cup to winter. Then they stopped coming, and we almost forgot them. Well, they’ve got a trail around under the Saddle, and they go down and winter in the cañon. In summer they head up those rocky gullies, but they can’t get up on the mountain. So it isn’t likely anyone will ever discover them. They are wild as deer and fatter than any stock on the ranges.”

  “Good! That’s the best news I’ve had in many a day. Now, boys, we’ll ride the mountain slope toward Seeping Springs, drive the cattle down, and finish up this branding. Somebody ought to go to White Sage. I’d like to know what’s going on, what Holderness is up to, what Dene is doing, if there’s any st
ock being driven to Lund.”

  “I told you I’d go,” said Snap Naab.

  “I don’t want you to,” replied his father. “I guess it can wait till spring, then we’ll all go in. I might have thought to bring you boys out some clothes and boots. You’re pretty ragged. Jack there, especially, looks like a scarecrow. Has he worked as hard as he looks?”

  “Father, he never lost a day,” replied Dave warmly, “and you know what riding is in these cañons.”

  August Naab looked at Hare and laughed. “It’d be funny, wouldn’t it, if Holderness tried to slap you now? I always knew you’d do, Jack, and now you’re one of us, and you’ll have a share with my sons in the cattle.”

  But the generous promise failed to offset the feeling aroused by the presence of Snap Naab. With the first sight of Snap’s sharp face and strange eyes Hare became conscious of an inward heat, which he had felt before, but never as now, when there seemed to be an actual flame within his breast. Yet Snap seemed greatly changed; the red flush, the swollen lines no longer showed in his face; evidently in his absence on the Navajo desert he had had no liquor; he was good-natured, lively, much inclined to joking, and he seemed to have entirely forgotten his animosity toward Hare. It was easy for Hare to see that the man’s evil nature was in the ascendancy only when he was under the dominance of drink. But he could not forgive, he could not forget. Mescal’s dark, beautiful eyes haunted him. Even now she might be married to this man. Perhaps that was why Snap appeared to be in such cheerful spirits. Suspense added its burdensome insistent question, but he could not bring himself to ask August if the marriage had taken place. For a day he fought to resign himself to the inevitability of the Mormon custom, to forget Mescal, and then he gave up trying. This surrender he felt to be something crucial in his life, although he could not wholly understand it. It was the darkening of his spirit, the death of boyish gentleness, the concluding step from youth into a forced manhood. The desert regeneration had not stopped at turning weak lungs, vitiated blood, and flaccid muscles into a powerful man; it was at work on his mind, his heart, his soul. They answered more and more to the call of some outside, ever-present, fiercely subtle thing.