Zane Grey (5 page)

All had finished eating, except Snap and Dave Naab, when one of the
mustangs neighed shrilly. Hare would not have noticed it but for looks
exchanged among the men. The glances were explained a few minutes later
when a pattering of hoofs came from the cedar forest, and a stream of
mounted Indians poured into the glade.

The ugly glade became a place of color and action. The Navajos rode
wiry, wild-looking mustangs and drove ponies and burros carrying packs,
most of which consisted of deer-hides. Each Indian dismounted, and
unstrapping the blanket which had served as a saddle headed his mustang
for the water-hole and gave him a slap. Then the hides and packs were
slipped from the pack-train, and soon the pool became a kicking,
splashing melee. Every cedar-tree circling the glade and every branch
served as a peg for deer meat. Some of it was in the haunch, the bulk in
dark dried strips. The Indians laid their weapons aside. Every sagebush
and low stone held a blanket. A few of these blankets were of solid
color, most of them had bars of white and gray and red, the last color
predominating. The mustangs and burros filed out among the cedars,
nipping at the sage and the scattered tufts of spare grass. A group of
fires, sending up curling columns of blue smoke, and surrounded by a
circle of lean, half-naked, bronze-skinned Indians, cooking and eating,
completed a picture which afforded Hare the satisfying fulfilment of
boyish dreams. What a contrast to the memory of a camp-site on the
Connecticut shore, with boy friends telling tales in the glow of the
fire, and the wash of the waves on the beach!

The sun sank low in the west, sending gleams through the gnarled branches
of the cedars, and turning the green into gold. At precisely the moment
of sunset, the Mormon women broke into soft song which had the element of
prayer; and the lips of the men moved in silent harmony. Dave Naab, the
only one who smoked, removed his pipe for the moment's grace to dying
day.

This simple ceremony over, one of the boys put wood on the fire, and Snap
took a jews'-harp out of his pocket and began to extract doleful discords
from it, for which George kicked at him in disgust, finally causing him
to leave the circle and repair to the cedars, where he twanged with
supreme egotism.

"Jack," said August Naab, "our friends the Navajo chiefs, Scarbreast and
Eschtah, are coming to visit us. Take no notice of them at first.
They've great dignity, and if you entered their hogans they'd sit for
some moments before appearing to see you. Scarbreast is a war-chief.
Eschtah is the wise old chief of all the Navajos on the Painted Desert.
It may interest you to know he is Mescal's grandfather. Some day I'll
tell you the story."

Hare tried very hard to appear unconscious when two tall Indians stalked
into the circle of Mormons; he set his eyes on the white heart of the
camp-fire and waited. For several minutes no one spoke or even moved.
The Indians remained standing for a time; then seated themselves.
Presently August Naab greeted them in the Navajo language. This was a
signal for Hare to use his eyes and ears. Another interval of silence
followed before they began to talk. Hare could see only their blanketed
shoulders and black heads.

"Jack, come round here," said Naab at length. "I've been telling them
about you. These Indians do not like the whites, except my own family.
I hope you'll make friends with them."

"How do?" said the chief whom Naab had called Eschtah, a stately,
keen-eyed warrior, despite his age.

The next Navajo greeted him with a guttural word. This was a warrior
whose name might well have been Scarface, for the signs of conflict were
there. It was a face like a bronze mask, cast in the one expression of
untamed desert fierceness.

Hare bowed to each and felt himself searched by burning eyes, which were
doubtful, yet not unfriendly.

"Shake," finally said Eschtah, offering his hand.

"Ugh!" exclaimed Scarbreast, extending a bare silver-braceleted arm.

This sign of friendship pleased Naab. He wished to enlist the sympathies
of the Navajo chieftains in the young man's behalf. In his ensuing
speech, which was plentifully emphasized with gestures, he lapsed often
into English, saying "weak—no strong" when he placed his hand on Hare's
legs, and "bad" when he touched the young man's chest, concluding with
the words "sick—sick."

Scarbreast regarded Hare with great earnestness, and when Naab had
finished he said: "Chineago—ping!" and rubbed his hand over his stomach.

"He says you need meat—lots of deer-meat," translated Naab.

"Sick," repeated Eschtah, whose English was intelligible. He appeared to
be casting about in his mind for additional words to express his knowledge
of the white man's tongue, and, failing, continued in Navajo: "Tohodena—
moocha—malocha."

Hare was nonplussed at the roar of laughter from the Mormons. August
shook like a mountain in an earthquake.

"Eschtah says, 'you hurry, get many squaws—many wives.'"

Other Indians, russet-skinned warriors, with black hair held close by
bands round their foreheads, joined the circle, and sitting before the
fire clasped their knees and talked. Hare listened awhile, and then,
being fatigued, he sought the cedar-tree where he had left his blankets.
The dry mat of needles made an odorous bed. He placed a sack of grain
for a pillow, and doubling up one blanket to lie upon, he pulled the
others over him. Then he watched and listened. The cedar-wood burned
with a clear flame, and occasionally snapped out a red spark. The voices
of the Navajos, scarcely audible, sounded "toa's" and "taa's"—syllables
he soon learned were characteristic and dominant—in low, deep murmurs.
It reminded Hare of something that before had been pleasant to his ear.
Then it came to mind: a remembrance of Mescal's sweet voice, and that
recalled the kinship between her and the Navajo chieftain. He looked
about, endeavoring to find her in the ring of light, for he felt in her a
fascination akin to the charm of this twilight hour. Dusky forms passed
to and fro under the trees; the tinkle of bells on hobbled mustangs rang
from the forest; coyotes had begun their night quest with wild howls; the
camp-fire burned red, and shadows flickered on the blanketed Indians; the
wind now moaned, now lulled in the cedars.

Hare lay back in his blankets and saw lustrous stars through the network
of branches. With their light in his face and the cold wind waving his
hair on his brow he thought of the strangeness of it all, of its
remoteness from anything ever known to him before, of its inexpressible
wildness. And a rush of emotion he failed wholly to stifle proved to him
that he could have loved this life if—if he had not of late come to
believe that he had not long to live. Still Naab's influence exorcised
even that one sad thought; and he flung it from him in resentment.

Sleep did not come so readily; he was not very well this night; the flush
of fever was on his cheek, and the heat of feverish blood burned his
body. He raised himself and, resolutely seeking for distraction, once
more stared at the camp-fire. Some time must have passed during his
dreaming, for only three persons were in sight. Naab's broad back was
bowed and his head nodded. Across the fire in its ruddy flicker sat
Eschtah beside a slight, dark figure. At second glance Hare recognized
Mescal. Surprise claimed him, not more for her presence there than for
the white band binding her smooth black tresses. She had not worn such
an ornament before. That slender band lent her the one touch which made
her a Navajo. Was it worn in respect to her aged grandfather? What did
this mean for a girl reared with Christian teaching? Was it desert
blood? Hare had no answers for these questions. They only increased the
mystery and romance. He fell asleep with the picture in his mind of
Eschtah and Mescal, sitting in the glow of the fire, and of August Naab,
nodding silently.

"Jack, Jack, wake up." The words broke dully into his slumbers; wearily
he opened his eyes. August Naab bent over him, shaking him gently.

"Not so well this morning, eh? Here's a cup of coffee. We're all packed
and starting. Drink now, and climb aboard. We expect to make Seeping
Springs to-night."

Hare rose presently and, laboring into the wagon, lay down on the sacks.
He had one of his blind, sickening headaches. The familiar lumbering of
wheels began, and the clanking of the wagon-chain. Despite jar and jolt
he dozed at times, awakening to the scrape of the wheel on the leathern
brake. After a while the rapid descent of the wagon changed to a roll,
without the irritating rattle. He saw a narrow valley; on one side the
green, slow-swelling cedar slope of the mountain; on the other the
perpendicular red wall, with its pinnacles like spears against the sky.
All day this backward outlook was the same, except that each time he
opened aching eyes the valley had lengthened, the red wall and green
slope had come closer together in the distance. By and by there came a
halt, the din of stamping horses and sharp commands, the bustle and
confusion of camp. Naab spoke kindly to him, but he refused any food,
lay still and went to sleep.

Daylight brought him the relief of a clear head and cooled blood. The
camp had been pitched close under the red wall. A lichen-covered cliff,
wet with dripping water, overhung a round pool. A ditch led the water
down the ridge to a pond. Cattle stood up to their knees drinking;
others lay on the yellow clay, which was packed as hard as stone; still
others were climbing the ridge and passing down on both sides.

"You look as if you enjoyed that water," remarked Naab, when Hare
presented himself at the fire. "Well, it's good, only a little salty.
Seeping Springs this is, and it's mine. This ridge we call The Saddle;
you see it dips between wall and mountain and separates two valleys.
This valley we go through to-day is where my cattle range. At the other
end is Silver Cup Spring, also mine. Keep your eyes open now, my lad."

How different was the beginning of this day! The sky was as blue as the
sea; the valley snuggled deep in the embrace of wall and mountain. Hare
took a place on the seat beside Naab and faced the descent. The line of
Navajos, a graceful straggling curve of color on the trail, led the way
for the white-domed wagons.

Naab pointed to a little calf lying half hidden under a bunch of sage.
"That's what I hate to see. There's a calf, just born; its mother has
gone in for water. Wolves and lions range this valley. We lose hundreds
of calves that way."

As far as Hare could see red and white and black cattle speckled the
valley.

"If not overstocked, this range is the best in Utah," said Naab. "I say
Utah, but it's really Arizona. The Grand Canyon seems to us Mormons to
mark the line. There's enough browse here to feed a hundred thousand
cattle. But water's the thing. In some seasons the springs go almost
dry, though Silver Cup holds her own well enough for my cattle."

Hare marked the tufts of grass lying far apart on the yellow earth;
evidently there was sustenance enough in every two feet of ground to
support only one tuft.

"What's that?" he asked, noting a rolling cloud of dust with black
bobbing borders.

"Wild mustangs," replied Naab. "There are perhaps five thousand on the
mountain, and they are getting to be a nuisance. They're almost as bad
as sheep on the browse; and I should tell you that if sheep pass over a
range once the cattle will starve. The mustangs are getting too
plentiful. There are also several bands of wild horses."

"What's the difference between wild horses and mustangs?"

"I haven't figured that out yet. Some say the Spaniards left horses in
here three hundred years ago. Wild? They are wilder than any naturally
wild animal that ever ran on four legs. Wait till you get a look at
Silvermane or Whitefoot."

"What are they?"

"Wild stallions. Silvermane is an iron gray, with a silver mane, the
most beautiful horse I ever saw. Whitefoot's an old black shaggy demon,
with one white foot. Both stallions ought to be killed. They fight my
horses and lead off the mares. I had a chance to shoot Silvermane on the
way over this trip, but he looked so splendid that I just laid down my
rifle."

"Can they run?" asked Hare eagerly, with the eyes of a man who loved a
horse.

"Run? Whew! Just you wait till you see Silvermane cover ground! He can
look over his shoulder at you and beat any horse in this country. The
Navajos have given up catching him as a bad job. Why—here! Jack! quick,
get out your rifle—coyotes!"

Naab pulled on the reins, and pointed to one side. Hare discerned three
grayish sharp-nosed beasts sneaking off in the sage, and he reached back
for the rifle. Naab whistled, stopping the coyotes; then Hare shot. The
ball cut a wisp of dust above and beyond them. They loped away into the
sage.

"How that rifle spangs!" exclaimed Naab. "It's good to hear it. Jack,
you shot high. That's the trouble with men who have never shot at game.
They can't hold low enough. Aim low, lower than you want. Ha! There's
another—this side—hold ahead of him and low, quick!—too high again."

It was in this way that August and Hare fell far behind the other wagons.
The nearer Naab got to his home the more genial he became. When he was
not answering Hare's queries he was giving information of his own accord,
telling about the cattle and the range, the mustangs, the Navajos, and
the desert. Naab liked to talk; he had said he had not the gift of
revelation, but he certainly had the gift of tongues.

The sun was in the west when they began to climb a ridge. A short
ascent, and a long turn to the right brought them under a bold spur of
the mountain which shut out the northwest. Camp had been pitched in a
grove of trees of a species new to Hare. From under a bowlder gushed the
sparkling spring, a grateful sight and sound to desert travellers. In a
niche of the rock hung a silver cup.