The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel, Page 5

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