by Zane Grey
“The White Prophet’s fires burned bright,” said the chieftain. “Eschtah is here.”
“The Navajo is a friend,” replied Naab. “The white man needs counsel and help. He has fallen upon evil days.”
“Eschtah is old and wise. He sees war in the eyes of his friend.”
“War, chief, war! Let the Navajo and his warriors rest and eat. Then we shall speak.”
A single command from the Navajo broke the waiting files of warriors. Mustangs were loosened into the fields, packs were unstrapped from the burros, blankets spread under the cottonwoods. When the afternoon waned and the shade from the western wall crept into the oasis, August Naab came from his cabin, clad in buckskins with a huge blue Colt swinging, handle outward, from his left hip. He ordered his sons to replenish the fire that had been built in the circle, and, when the dark, shining-eyed Indians had squatted around 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 grayfaced giant stalking to and fro before his red-skinned friends. A long while he strode in the circle of light to pause at length before the chieftains and to roll the deep nasal burr of his voice into the impressive silence.
“Eschtah sees before him a friend stung to his heart. Men of his own color have for years 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 firewater 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. Today the white man laid another son in his grave. What thinks the chief ? Would he not crush the scorpion that stung him?”
“Eschtah respects his friend, but he has not thought well of his wisdom. 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 counsel the spilling of blood for its own sake. The Navajo’s father and his father’s father bathed the desert in red blood, and he himself has shed blood, red and white, but it was to save his sheep, his water, his corn that the Navajo children might not starve. Eschtah’s friend has let too many selfish men of his race cross his range and drink at his springs. They drive his cattle and take the meat from his children’s mouths. 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,” Naab continued, “ . . . he is surrounded by 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 who 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 will watch over the water and range.”
“Eschtah greets a great 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. He will seek the white man’s sons so that his chief may know who to kill. For Eschtah will never rest until his friend’s foes are dead or driven from the desert. Blood will coat the sands. While Eschtah lives and his sons live, they will mourn for the White Prophet and herd his cattle and ever stand in the gateway of the red cliffs.”
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, and his warriors, with soft shuffling moccasined steps, walked out of the glow of the firelight to fade into the night.
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 been the lightning stroke to smite Hare rigid in his tracks. 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 in his life, that he would forestall August Naab, avenge the death of Dave, and kill the rustler Holderness. The strange calm that had obsessed him had waited for this maëlstrom within his breast, this contending tide of emotion. He clung to the tree, clenching the rough bark while the storm raged. Wave on wave, beat on beat, the race of hot blood slowly stilled and receded and cooled. Beads of cold sweat dampened his brow and his hands were wet. Strangely he divined that such a gust of passion would never again torture his physical being and shake the very foundations of his soul. It was the terrible and last convulsion and opposition to the law that leveled life in death. Through blinding shock he passed and slowly into stern cold acceptance of his heritage from the desert.
The two long years of his desert training were as an open page to the unveiled eye of Hare’s mind. 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 unforgettable 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, the apparent futility of his ever repaying him, and then what Naab had replied: “Lad, you can never tell how one man may repay another.” How true that was. Hare could pay his own debt and that of the many who had drifted across the sands to find a home with the Mormon. These men stirred in their graves, and from out of the shadow of the cliff whispered the voice of Mescal’s nameless father: “Is there no one to rise up for this grand old man?”
Softly Hare slipped into his room, and, 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, and, raising the lid, he filled a measure with grain, and emptied it into his saddlebag. 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 stuck her black muzzle over the fence. Hare placed a caressing hand on her while he waited, listening and watching. It was not an unusual circumstance for the mustangs to get restless at any time during the night, and Hare had confidence 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 saddlebags 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 shoved 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.
Chapter Nineteen
Hare’s listening breathlessness wore itself out in the slow silent advance toward the gateway of the cliffs, and, when he had passed the great, round corner of the wall, he breathed once more with freedom. Spurring Bolly into a trot, he rode forward with a certain strange elation. He had slipped out of the oasis unseen, unheard. 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 a little with something akin to fear when he pictured the old man’s rage, and wondered what change it would make in his plan. Hare saw in his mind Naab and his sons and the Navajos sweeping in pursuit to save him from the rustlers.
That was the last thought he allowed himself in reference to future possibilities; he addressed all the faculties at his command to cool consideration of the present. The strip of sand under the Blue Star had to be crossed at night—a feat that even the Navajos did not have to their credit. Yet Hare had no shrinking; he had no doubt. As he had been drawn to the Painted Desert by a voiceless call, so now he was pushed forward by something nameless, a something made up of gleams from Mescal’s eyes, from Naab’s altered face, from remembered words of paling lips, from wails of women, from the silent sound of dead men turning in their graves.
The windy blackness of the night was like that of a huge dim hall with a current of air. The night had turned cold, the stars had brightened icily, the rumble of the river had died away when Bolly’s clicking trot suddenly changed to a noiseless floundering walk. She had come upon the sand. Hare located the Blue Star in the cliff, and once more loosed the rein on Bolly’s neck. She stopped and champed her bit, and turned her black head to him as if to say she wanted the guidance of a sure arm. But as it was not forthcoming she stepped onward into the yielding sand.
With hands resting idly on the pommel Hare sat at ease in the saddle. The billowy dunes reflected the pale starlight and waved away from him to darken in obscurity. So long as the Blue Star remained in sight, he kept his sense of direction; when it had disappeared, he felt himself lost. Bolly’s course seemed as crooked as the jagged outline of the cliffs. She climbed straight up little knolls, descended them at an angle, turned sharply at wind-washed gullies, made winding detours, zigzagged levels that shone like a polished floor, and at last, it seemed to Hare, she doubled back on her trail. The black cliff receded over the waves of sand; the stars changed positions, traveled around in the blue dome, and the few that he knew finally sank below the horizon. Bolly never lagged; she was like the homewardbound horse, indifferent to direction because sure of it, eager to finish the journey because now it was short. Hare was glad although not surprised when she snorted and cracked her iron-shod hoof on a stone at the edge of the sand. He smiled with tightening lips as he rode into the shadow of a rock that he recognized. Bolly had crossed the treacherous belt of dunes and washes to strike the trail on the other side.
The long level of wind-carved rocks under the cliff, the hummocky ridges of the ribbed desert, the miles of slow ascent up to the scaly divide, the gradual descent to the cedars—these stretches of his journey took the night hours and brought the brightening gray in the east. Within a mile of Silver Cup Spring, Hare dismounted to tie folded pads of buckskin on Bolly’s hoofs. When her feet were muffled, he cautiously advanced on the trail for the matter of a hundred rods or more, then sheered off to the right into the cedars. He led Bolly slowly, without rattling a stone or snapping a twig, and stopped every few paces to listen. There was no sound other than the wind in the cedars. Presently he caught the dull red gleam of a burned-out campfire, and took in his breath with a sharp rush. Where after his movements became as guarded, as surely without noise as those of a spying Indian. The dawn broke over the red wall as he gained the trail beyond the spring.
He rimmed the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit Bolly and left her there, free. He drew his rifle from its sheath, and, after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.
Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he struck the mountain trail, went down that for some rods, and then stepped off into the cedars. Finally he reached a point directly above the cliff camp where he had spent so many days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness. He stole down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The sun, red as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft streaky mists of the valley began to color and move; cattle were working in toward the spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone, Hare descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every step. Soon the flat rim of gray stone shut out the lower level of cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course down the last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench that faced the valley. This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar brush—a difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his choice of steps, very slow in execution of them, Hare proceeded with a stealth that satisfied even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone edged into the focus of his downcast fixed eye, he sank to the ground with a slight trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of the cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look down upon the camp.
A little cloud of smoke rose lazily and trailed a slender column of blue. Sounds were wafted softly upward—the low voices of men in conversation, a merry whistle, and then the humming of a tune. Hare’s mouth was dry and his temples throbbed as he asked himself what now was to be the manner of his procedure. The answer came from the moment, yet seemed to have been long waiting. I’ll watch till Holderness walks out into sight, jump up with a yell when he comes, give him time to see me, to draw his gun . . . then kill him!
Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his agitation, and peered over the cliff. The crude shingles of the cabin first rose into sight, then, beyond, he saw the corral with a number of shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a white-crested mane.
Silvermane . . . my God! he thought, gasping. They caught him . . . after all.
He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clenching his rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its meaning.
Silvermane . . . they caught him . . . after all, he kept thinking. Then in a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: “Mescal . . . Mescal . . . and a night has passed.”
Then he rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; he bit the dust like a death-stricken wolf; his body strung out, stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails indented the stock of his rifle. This rigidity softened to heaving muscular ripples that shook him from head to foot. He sat u
p, haggard and wild-eyed, brow dripping, while a force stronger than the fear and agony that had laid him low lifted him, propelled him from the ground, froze the personal human cry of pain.
Silvermane had been captured, most likely by the rustlers waiting at the western edge of the sand strip; Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap Naab. Incontrovertible facts not to be lessened by the pangs of a lover. But Mescal was surely alive; Silvermane was there to be freed and to carry her away; Snap was there to be killed, his long career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day—these things that Hare somehow knew crushed down the weakness of surprise and shock. The stern deliberation of his intent to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay his debt to August Naab, and the debts of many other desert drifters were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this thing that now raised him. Suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion unleashed from long thrall.
From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff. The cabin with its shut door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from where he had hidden. One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the campfire and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench waiting for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets, stretched and yawned, and, pulling on their boots, made for the spring. The last man to get up was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of the door. For Hare the significance was that Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no one could go in or out without stepping upon him. How the cold-meaning shudder passed through Hare as he watched Naab. The rustler foreman of Holderness’s company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor had he removed his boots. With what dark humor Hare noted these details.
