Desert Heritage

by Zane Grey

  Thenceforth he no longer vexed himself by trying to forget Mescal; if she came to mind, he told himself the truth—that the weeks and months had only added to his love. And although it was bittersweet, there was relief in speaking the truth to himself. He no longer blinded himself by hoping, striving to have generous feelings toward Snap Naab; he called the inward fire by its real name—jealousy— and knew that in the end it would become hatred.

  On the third morning after leaving Silver Cup the riders were working slowly along the slope of Coconina, and Hare, having driven down a bunch of cattle, found himself on an open ridge near the temporary camp. Happening to glance up the valley he saw what appeared to be smoke hanging over Seeping Springs.

  “That can’t be dust,” he soliloquized. “Looks blue to me.”

  He studied the hazy bluish cloud for some time, but it was so many miles away that he could not be certain whether it was smoke or not, so he decided to ride over and make sure. None of the Naabs was in camp, and there was no telling when they would return, so he set off alone. He expected to get back before dark, but it was of little consequence whether he did or not, for he had his blanket under the saddle, and grain for Silvermane, and food for himself in the saddlebags.

  Long before Silvermane’s easy trot had covered half the distance, Hare recognized the cloud that had made him curious. It was smoke. He thought that range riders were camping at the springs, and he meant to see what they were about. After three hours of brisk travel he reached the top of a low rolling knoll that hid Seeping Springs. He remembered the springs were up under the red wall, and that the pool where the cattle drank was lower down in a clump of cedars. He saw smoke rising in a column from the cedars, and he heard the lowing of cattle.

  “Something wrong here,” he muttered. Following the trail, he rode through the cedars to come upon the dry hole where the pool had once been. There was no water in the flume. The bellowing cattle came from beyond the cedars, down the other side of the ridge. He was not long in reaching the open, and then one glance made all clear.

  A new pool, large as a little lake, shone in the twilight, and around it a jostling horned mass of cattle were pressing against a high corral. The flume that fed water to the pool was fenced all the way up to the springs.

  Jack slowly rode down the ridge with eyes roving under the cedars and up to the wall. Not a man was in sight.

  When he got to the fire, he saw that it was not many hours old and was surrounded by fresh boot and horse tracks in the dust. Piles of slender pine logs, trimmed flat on one side, were proof of somebody’s intention to erect a cabin. In a rage he flung himself from the saddle. It was not many moments’ work for him to push part of the fire under the fence, and part of it against the pile of logs. The pitch pines went off like rockets, driving the thirsty cattle back.

  “I’m going to trail those horse tracks,” said Hare.

  He tore down a portion of the fence enclosing the flume, and gave Silvermane a drink, then put him to a fast trot on the white trail. The tracks he had resolved to follow were clean cut. A few inches of snow had fallen in the valley and, melting, had softened the hard ground. Silvermane kept to his gait with the tirelessness of a desert horse. August Naab had once said fifty miles a day would be play for the stallion. All the afternoon Hare watched the trail speed toward him and the end of Coconina rise above him. Long before sunset he had reached the slope of the mountain and had begun the ascent. Halfway up he came to the snow and counted the tracks of three horses. At twilight he rode into the glade where August Naab had waited for his Navajo friends. There, in a sheltered nook among the rocks, he unsaddled Silvermane, covered and fed him, built a fire, ate sparingly of his meat and bread, and, rolling up in his blanket, was soon asleep.

  He was up and off before sunrise, and he came out on the western slope of Coconina just as the shadowy valley awakened from its misty sleep into daylight. Soon the Pink Cliffs leaned out, glimmering and vast, to change from gloomy gray to rosy glow, and then to brighten and to redden in the morning sun.

  The snow thinned and failed, but the iron-cut horse tracks showed plainly in the trail. At the foot of the mountain the tracks left the White Sage trail and led off to the north toward the cliffs. Hare searched the red sage-spotted waste for Holderness’s ranch. He located it, a black patch on the rising edge of the valley under the wall, and turned Silvermane into the tracks that pointed straight toward it.

  The sun cleared Coconina and shone warm on his back; the Pink Cliffs lifted higher and higher before him. From the ridge tops he saw the black patch grow into cabins and corrals. As he neared the ranch, he came into rolling pasture land where the bleached grass shone white and the cattle were ranging in the thousands. This range had once belonged to Martin Cole, and Hare thought of the bitter Mormon as he noted the snug cabins for the riders, the rambling, picturesque ranch house, the large corrals, and the long flume that ran down from the cliff. There was a corral full of shaggy horses, and another full of steers, and two lines of cattle, one going into a pond corral, and one coming out. The air was gray with dust. A bunch of yearlings were licking at huge lumps of brown rock salt. A wagon full of cowhides stood before the ranch house.

  Hare reined in at the door and halloed.

  A red-faced ranger with sandy hair and twinkling eyes appeared. “Hello, stranger, get down an’ come in,” he said.

  “Is Holderness here?” asked Hare.

  “No. He’s been to Lund with a bunch of steers. I reckon he’ll be in White Sage by now. I’m Snood, the foreman. Is it a job ridin’ you want?”

  “No.”

  “Say, thet hoss . . .!” he exclaimed. His gaze of friendly curiosity had moved from Hare to Silvermane. “You can corral me if it ain’t thet Sevier range stallion!”

  “Yes,” said Hare.

  Snood’s whoop brought three riders to the door, and, when he pointed to the horse, they stepped out with good-natured grins and admiring eyes.

  “I never seen him but oncet,” said one.

  “Lordy, what a hoss!” Snood walked round Silvermane. “If I owned this ranch, I’d trade it for that stallion. I know Silvermane. He an’ I hed some chases over in Nevada. An’, stranger, who might you be?”

  “I’m one of August Naab’s riders.”

  “Dene’s spy!” Snood looked Hare over carefully, with much interest, and without any show of ill will. “I’ve heerd of you. An’ what might one of Naab’s riders want of Holderness?”

  “I rode in to Seeping Springs yesterday,” said Hare, eyeing the foreman. “There was a new pond, fenced in. Our cattle couldn’t drink. There were a lot of trimmed logs. Somebody was going to build a cabin. I burned the corrals and logs . . . and I trailed fresh tracks from Seeping Springs to this ranch.”

  “The hell you did!” shouted Snood, and his face flamed. “See here, stranger, you’re the second man to accuse some of my riders of such dirty tricks. That’s enough for me. I was foreman of this ranch till this minute. I was foreman, but there were things goin’ on thet I didn’t know of. I kicked on thet deal with Martin Cole. I quit. I steal no man’s water. Is thet good with you?”

  Snood’s query was as much a challenge as a question. He bit savagely at his pipe.

  Hare offered his hand. “Your word goes. Dave Naab said you might be Holderness’s foreman, but you weren’t a liar or a thief. I’d believe it even if Dave hadn’t told me.”

  “Them fellers you tracked rode in here yesterday. They’re gone now. I’ve no more to say, except I never hired them.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Good day, Snood, I’m in something of a hurry.”

  With that Hare faced about in the direction of White Sage. Once clear of the corrals he saw the village closer than he had expected to find it. He walked Silvermane most of the way, and jogged along the rest, so that he reached the village in the twilight. Memory served him well. He rode in as August Naab had ridden out, and arrived at the bishop’s barn yard, where he put up his horse. Then he went
to the house. It was necessary to introduce himself, for none of the bishop’s family recognized in him the young man they had once befriended. The old bishop prayed and reminded him of the laying on of hands. The women served him with food; the young men brought him new boots and garments to replace those that had been worn to tatters. Then they plied him with questions about the Naabs, who they had not seen for nearly a year. They rejoiced at his recovered health; they welcomed him with warm words.

  Later Hare sought an interview alone with the bishop’s sons, and he told them of the loss of the sheep, of the burning of the new corrals, of the tracks leading to Holderness’s ranch. In turn they warned him of his danger, and gave him the information desired by August Naab. Holderness’s grasp on the outlying ranges and water rights had slowly and surely tightened; every month he acquired new territory; he drove cattle regularly to Lund, and it was no secret that much of the stock came from the eastern slope of Coconina. He could not hire enough riders to do his work. A suspicion that he was not a cattleman but a rustler had slowly gained ground; it was scarcely hinted, but it was believed. His friendship with Dene had become offensive to the Mormons, who had formerly been on good footing with him. Dene’s killing of Martin Cole was believed to have been at Holderness’s instigation. Cole had threatened Holderness. Then Dene and Cole had met in the main street of White Sage. Cole’s death ushered in the bloody time that he had prophesied. Dene’s band had grown; no man could say how many men he had or who they were. Chance and Culver were openly his lieutenants, and whenever they came into the village, there was shooting. There were ugly rumors afloat in regard to their treatment of Mormon women. The wives and daughters of once peaceful White Sage dared no longer venture out-of-doors after nightfall. There was more money in coin and more whiskey than ever before in the village. Lund and the few villages northward were terrorized as well as White Sage. It was a hard story.

  Bishop Caldwell and his sons tried to persuade Hare, next morning, to leave the village without seeing Holderness, urging the futility of such a meeting.

  “I will see him,” said Hare. He spent the morning at the cottage, and, when it came time to take his leave, he smiled into the anxious faces. “If I weren’t able to take care of myself, August Naab would never have said so.”

  Had Hare asked himself what he intended to do when he faced Holderness, he could not have told. His feelings were pent-in, bound, but at the bottom something rankled. His mind seemed steeped in still thunderous atmosphere.

  How well he remembered the quaint wide street, the gray church, the square, still green! As he rode many persons stopped to gaze at Silvermane. He turned the corner into the main thoroughfare. A new building had been added to the several stores. Mustangs stood, bridles down, before the doors; men lounged along the railings.

  As he dismounted, he heard the loungers speak of his horse, and he saw their leisurely manner quicken. He stepped into the store to meet more men, among them August Naab’s friend Abe. Hare might never have been in White Sage for all the recognition he found, but he excited something keener than curiosity. He asked for spurs, a clasp knife, and some other necessaries, and he contrived, when momentarily out of sight behind a pile of boxes, to whisper his identity to Abe. The Mormon was dumbfounded. When he came out of his trance, he showed his gladness, and, at a question of Hare’s, he silently pointed toward the saloon.

  Hare faced the open door. The room had been enlarged; it was now on a level with the store floor, and was blue with smoke, foul with the fumes of rum, and noisy with the voices of dark, rugged men.

  A man in the middle of the room was dancing a jig.

  “Hello, who’s this?” he said, straightening up.

  It might have been the stopping of the dance or the quick spark in Hare’s eyes that suddenly quieted the room. Hare had once vowed to himself that he would never forget the scarred face; it belonged to the outlaw Chance.

  The sight of it flashed into the gulf of Hare’s mind like a meteor into black night. A sudden madness raced through his veins.

  “Hello! Don’t you know me?” he said, with a long step that brought him close to Chance.

  The outlaw stood irresolute. Was this an old friend or an enemy? His beady eyes scintillated and twitched as if they sought to look him over, yet dared not because it was only in the face that intention could be read.

  The stillness of the room broke to a hoarse whisper from someone.

  “Look how he packs his gun.”

  Another man answering whispered: “There’s not six men in Utah who pack a gun thet way.”

  Chance heard these whispers, for his eye shifted downward the merest fraction of a second. The brick color of his face turned a dirty white.

  “Do you know me?” demanded Hare.

  Chance’s answer was a spasmodic jerking of his hand toward his hip. Hare’s arm moved quicker, and Chance’s Colt went spinning to the floor.

  “Too slow,” said Hare. Then he flung Chance backward and struck him blows that sent his head with sodden thuds against the log wall. Chance sank to the floor in a heap.

  Hare kicked the outlaw’s gun out of the way, and wheeled to the crowd. Holderness stood foremost, his tall form leaning against the bar, his clear eyes shining like light on ice.

  “Do you know me?” asked Hare curtly.

  Holderness started slightly. “I certainly don’t,” he replied.

  “You slapped my face once.” Hare leaned close to the rancher. “Slap it now . . . you rustler . . . you thief !”

  In the slow, guarded instant when Hare’s gaze held Holderness and the other men, a low murmuring ran through the room.

  “Dene’s spy!” suddenly burst out Holderness.

  Hare slapped his face. Then he backed a few paces with his right arm held before him almost as high as his shoulder, the wrist rigid, the fingers quivering.

  “Don’t try to draw, Holderness. Thet’s August Naab’s trick with a gun!” cried a man in fierce hurried whisper.

  “Holderness, I made a bonfire over at Seeping Springs,” said Hare. “I burned the new corrals your men built, and I tracked them to your ranch. Snood threw up his job when he heard it. He’s an honest man, and no honest man will work for a water thief, a cattle rustler, a sheep killer. You’re mask’s off, Holderness. Leave the country before someone kills you . . . understand, before someone kills you!”

  Holderness stood upright against the bar as if glued there, a flare of terrible fury in his eyes.

  Hare backed step by step to the outside door, his right hand still high, his look holding the crowd bound to the last instant. Then he slipped out, scattered the group around Silvermane, and struck hard with the spurs.

  The gray, never before spurred, broke down the road into his old wild speed.

  Men were crossing from the corner of the green square. One, a compact little fellow, swarthy, his dark hair long and flowing, with jaunty and alert air, was Dene, the outlaw leader. He stopped, with his companions, to let the horse cross.

  Hare guided the thundering stallion slightly to the left.

  “Dene’s spy!” he yelled when close upon them and jerked the rein.

  Silvermane swerved and in two mighty leaps bore down on the outlaw. Dene saved himself by quick action, falling aside, but even as he fell Silvermane struck him with his left foreleg, sending him into the dust.

  At the street corner Hare glanced back. Yelling men were rushing from the saloon and some of them fired their colts. The bullets whistled harmlessly behind Hare. Then the corner house shut off his view.

  Silvermane lengthened out and stretched lower with his white mane flying and his nose pointed level for the desert.

  Chapter Eleven

  Toward the close of the next day Jack Hare arrived at Seeping Springs. A pile of gray ashes marked the spot where the trimmed logs had lain. Around the pool ran a black circle hard packed into the ground by many hoofs. Even the board flume had been burned to a level with the glancing sheet of water. Hare was sli
pping Silvermane’s bit to let him drink when he heard a halloo. Dave Naab galloped out of the cedars, and presently August Naab and his other sons appeared with a pack train.

  “Now you’ve played hob!” exclaimed Dave. He swung out of his saddle and gripped Hare with both hands. “I know what you’ve done . . . I know where you’ve been. Father will be furious, but don’t you care.”

  The other Naabs trotted down the slope and lined their horses before the pool. The sons stared in blank astonishment; the father surveyed the scene slowly, and then fixed wrathful eyes on Hare.

  “What does this mean?” he demanded, with the sonorous of his voice in anger.

  Hare recounted all that had happened.

  August Naab’s gloomy face worked, and his eagle gaze had in it a strange far-seeing light remarkable to it when his mind dwelt on his mystic power of revelation.

  “I see . . . I see,” he said haltingly.

  “Ki-yi-i-i!” yelled Dave Naab with all the power of his lungs. His head was back, his mouth wide open, his face red, his neck corded and swollen with the intensity of his passion that went out in that Indian yell.

  “Be still . . . boy!” ordered his father. “Hare, this was madness . . . but tell me what you learned.”