The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel, Page 6

spring, a grateful sight and sound to desert travellers. In a

  niche of the rock hung a silver cup.

  "Jack, no man knows how old this cup is, or anything about it. We named

  the spring after it--Silver Cup. The strange thing is that the cup has

  never been lost nor stolen. But--could any desert man, or outlaw, or

  Indian, take it away, after drinking here?"

  The cup was nicked and battered, bright on the sides, moss-green on the

  bottom. When Hare drank from it he understood.

  That evening there was rude merriment around the campfire. Snap Naab

  buzzed on his jews'-harp and sang. He stirred some of the younger braves

  to dancing, and they stamped and swung their arms, singing, "hoya-heeya-

  howya," as they moved in and out of the firelight.

  Several of the braves showed great interest in Snap's jews'-harp and

  repeatedly asked him for it. Finally the Mormon grudgingly lent it to a

  curious Indian, who in trying to play it went through such awkward

  motions and made such queer sounds that his companions set upon him and

  fought for possession of the instrument. Then Snap, becoming solicitous

  for its welfare, jumped into the fray. They tussled for it amid the

  clamor of a delighted circle. Snap, passing from jest to earnest, grew

  so strenuous in his efforts to regain the harp that he tossed the

  Navajos about like shuttle-cocks. He got the harp and, concealing it,

  sought to break away. But the braves laid hold upon him, threw him to

  the ground, and calmly sat astride him while they went through his

  pockets. August Naab roared his merriment and Hare laughed till he

  cried. The incident was as surprising to him as it was amusing. These

  serious Mormons and silent Navajos were capable of mirth.

  Hare would have stayed up as late as any of them, but August's saying to

  him, "Get to bed: to-morrow will be bad!" sent him off to his blankets,

  where he was soon fast asleep. Morning found him well, hungry, eager to

  know what the day would bring.

  "Wait," said August, soberly.

  They rode out of the gray pocket in the ridge and began to climb. Hare

  had not noticed the rise till they were started, and then, as the horses

  climbed steadily he grew impatient at the monotonous ascent. There was

  nothing to see; frequently it seemed that they were soon to reach the

  summit, but still it rose above them. Hare went back to his comfortable

  place on the sacks.

  "Now, Jack," said August.

  Hare gasped. He saw a red world. His eyes seemed bathed in blood. Red

  scaly ground, bare of vegetation, sloped down, down, far down to a vast

  irregular rent in the earth, which zigzagged through the plain beneath.

  To the right it bent its crooked way under the brow of a black-timbered

  plateau; to the left it straightened its angles to find a V-shaped vent

  in the wall, now uplifted to a mountain range. Beyond this earth-riven

  line lay something vast and illimitable, a far-reaching vision of white

  wastes, of purple plains, of low mesas lost in distance. It was the

  shimmering dust-veiled desert.

  "Here we come to the real thing," explained Naab. "This is Windy Slope;

  that black line is the Grand Canyon of Arizona; on the other side is the

  Painted Desert where the Navajos live; Coconina Mountain shows his flat

  head there to the right, and the wall on our left rises to the

  Vermillion Cliffs. Now, look while you can, for presently you'll not be

  able to see."

  "Why?"

  "Wind, sand, dust, gravel, pebbles--watch out for your eyes!"

  Naab had not ceased speaking when Hare saw that the train of Indians

  trailing down the slope was enveloped in red clouds. Then the white

  wagons disappeared. Soon he was struck in the back by a gust which

  justified Naab's warning. It swept by; the air grew clear again; once

  more he could see. But presently a puff, taking him unawares, filled his

  eyes with dust difficult of removal. Whereupon he turned his back to the

  wind.

  The afternoon grew apace; the sun glistened on the white patches of

  Coconina Mountain; it set; and the wind died.

  "Five miles of red sand," said Naab. "Here's what kills the horses.

  Getup."

  There was no trail. All before was red sand, hollows, slopes, levels,

  dunes, in which the horses sank above their fetlocks. The wheels

  ploughed deep, and little red streams trailed down from the tires. Naab

  trudged on foot with the reins in his hands. Hare essayed to walk also,

  soon tired, and floundered behind till Naab ordered him to ride again.

  Twilight came with the horses still toiling.

  "There! thankful I am when we get off that strip! But, Jack, that

  trailless waste prevents a night raid on my home. Even the Navajos shun

  it after dark. We'll be home soon. There's my sign. See? Night or day we

  call it the Blue Star."

  High in the black cliff a star-shaped, wind-worn hole let the blue sky

  through.

  There was cheer in Naab's "Getup," now, and the horses quickened with

  it. Their iron-shod hoofs struck fire from the rosy road. "Easy, easy--

  soho!" cried Naab to his steeds. In the pitchy blackness under the

  shelving cliff they picked their way cautiously, and turned a corner.

  Lights twinkled in Hare's sight, a fresh breeze, coming from water,

  dampened his cheek, and a hollow rumble, a long roll as of distant

  thunder, filled his ears.

  "What's that?" he asked.

  "That, my lad, is what I always love to hear. It means I'm home. It's

  the roar of the Colorado as she takes her first plunge into the Canyon."

  IV. THE OASIS

  AUGUST NAAB'S oasis was an oval valley, level as a floor, green with

  leaf and white with blossom, enclosed by a circle of colossal cliffs of

  vivid vermilion hue. At its western curve the Colorado River split the

  red walls from north to south. When the wind was west a sullen roar,

  remote as of some far-off driving mill, filled the valley; when it was

  east a dreamy hollow hum, a somnolent song, murmured through the

  cottonwoods; when no wind stirred, silence reigned, a silence not of

  serene plain or mountain fastness, but shut in, compressed, strange, and

  breathless. Safe from the storms of the elements as well as of the world

  was this Garden of Eschtah.

  Naab had put Hare to bed on the unroofed porch of a log house, but

  routed him out early, and when Hare lifted the blankets a shower of

  cotton-blossoms drifted away like snow. A grove of gray-barked trees

  spread green canopy overhead, and through the intricate web shone

  crimson walls, soaring with resistless onsweep up and up to shut out all

  but a blue lake of sky.

  "I want you to see the Navajos cross the river," said Naab.

  Hare accompanied him out through the grove to a road that flanked the

  first rise of the red wall; they followed this for half a mile, and

  turning a corner came into an unobstructed view. A roar of rushing

  waters had prepared Hare, but the river that he saw appalled him. It was

  red and swift; it slid onward like an enormous slippery snake; its

  constricted head raised a crest of leaping waves, and disappeared in a

  dark c
hasm, whence came a bellow and boom.

  "That opening where she jumps off is the head of the Grand Canyon," said

  Naab. "It's five hundred feet deep there, and thirty miles below it's

  five thousand. Oh, once in, she tears in a hurry! Come, we turn up the

  bank here."

  Hare could find no speech, and he felt immeasurably small. All that he

  had seen in reaching this isolated spot was dwarfed in comparison. This

  "Crossing of the Fathers," as Naab called it, was the gateway of the

  desert. This roar of turbulent waters was the sinister monotone of the

  mighty desert symphony of great depths, great heights, great reaches.

  On a sandy strip of bank the Navajos had halted. This was as far as they

  could go, for above the wall jutted out into the river. From here the

  head of the Canyon was not visible, and the roar of the rapids was

  accordingly lessened in volume. But even in this smooth water the river

  spoke a warning.

  "The Navajos go in here and swim their mustangs across to that sand

  bar," explained Naab. "The current helps when she's high, and there's a

  three-foot raise on now."

  "I can't believe it possible. What danger they must run--those little

  mustangs!" exclaimed Hare.

  "Danger? Yes, I suppose so," replied Naab, as if it were a new idea. "My

  lad, the Mormons crossed here by the hundreds. Many were drowned. This

  trail and crossing were unknown except to Indians before the Mormon

  exodus."

  The mustangs had to be driven into the water. Scarbreast led, and his

  mustang, after many kicks and reluctant steps, went over his depth,

  wetting the stalwart chief to the waist. Bare-legged Indians waded in

  and urged their pack-ponies. Shouts, shrill cries, blows mingled with

  snorts and splashes.

  Dave and George Naab in flat boats rowed slowly on the down-stream side

  of the Indians. Presently all the mustangs and ponies were in, the

  procession widening out in a triangle from Scarbreast, the leader. The

  pack-ponies appeared to swim better than the mounted mustangs, or else

  the packs of deer-pelts made them more buoyant. When one-third way

  across the head of the swimming train met the current, and the line of

  progress broke. Mustang after mustang swept down with a rapidity which

  showed the power of the current. Yet they swam steadily with flanks

  shining, tails sometimes afloat, sometimes under, noses up, and riders

  holding weapons aloft. But the pack-ponies labored when the current

  struck them, and whirling about, they held back the Indians who were

  leading them, and blocked those behind. The orderly procession of the

  start became a broken line, and then a rout. Here and there a Navajo

  slipped into the water and swam, leading his mustang; others pulled on

  pack-ponies and beat their mounts; strong-swimming mustangs forged

  ahead; weak ones hung back, and all obeyed the downward will of the

  current.

  While Hare feared for the lives of some of the Navajos, and pitied the

  laden ponies, he could not but revel in the scene, in its vivid action

  and varying color, in the cries and shrill whoops of the Indians, and

  the snorts of the frightened mustangs, in Naab's hoarse yells to his

  sons, and the ever-present menacing roar from around the bend. The

  wildness of it all, the necessity of peril and calm acceptance of it,

  stirred within Hare the call, the awakening, the spirit of the desert.

  August Naab's stentorian voice rolled out over the river. "Ho! Dave--the

  yellow pinto--pull him loose--George, back this way--there's a pack

  slipping--down now, downstream, turn that straggler in--Dave, in that

  tangle--quick! There's a boy drowning--his foot's caught--he's been

  kicked--Hurry! Hurry!--pull him in the boat--There's a pony under--Too

  late, George, let that one go--let him go, I tell you!"

  So the crossing of the Navajos proceeded, never an instant free from

  danger in that churning current. The mustangs and ponies floundered

  somewhat on the sand-bar and then parted the willows and appeared on a

  trail skirting the red wall. Dave Naab moored his boat on that side of

  the river, and returned with George.

  "We'll look over my farm," said August, as they retraced their steps. He

  led Hare through fields of alfalfa, in all stages of growth, explaining

  that it yielded six crops a year. Into one ten-acre lot pigs and cows

  had been turned to feed at will. Everywhere the ground was soggy; little

  streams of water trickled down ditches. Next to the fields was an

  orchard, where cherries were ripe, apricots already large, plum-trees

  shedding their blossoms, and apple-trees just opening into bloom. Naab

  explained that the products of his oasis were abnormal; the ground was

  exceedingly rich and could be kept always wet; the reflection of the sun

  from the walls robbed even winter of any rigor, and the spring, summer,

  and autumn were tropical. He pointed to grape-vines as large as a man's

  thigh and told of bunches of grapes four feet long; he showed sprouting

  plants on which watermelons and pumpkins would grow so large that one

  man could not lift them; he told of one pumpkin that held a record of

  taking two men to roll it.

  "I can raise any kind of fruit in such abundance that it can't be used.

  My garden is prodigal. But we get little benefit, except for our own

  use, for we cannot transport things across the desert."

  The water which was the prime factor in all this richness came from a

  small stream which Naab, by making a dam and tunnelling a corner of

  cliff, had diverted from its natural course into his oasis.

  Between the fence and the red wall there was a wide bare plain which

  stretched to the house. At its farthest end was a green enclosure, which

  Hare recognized as the cemetery mentioned by Snap. Hare counted thirty

  graves, a few with crude monuments of stone, the others marked by wooden

  head-pieces.

  "I've the reputation of doctoring the women, and letting the men die,"

  said Naab, with a smile. "I hardly think it's fair. But the fact is no

  women are buried here. Some graves are of men I fished out of the river;

  others of those who drifted here, and who were killed or died keeping

  their secrets. I've numbered those unknown graves and have kept a

  description of the men, so, if the chance ever comes, I may tell some

  one where a father or brother lies buried. Five sons of mine, not one of

  whom died a natural death, found graves here--God rest them! Here's the

  grave of Mescal's father, a Spaniard. He was an adventurer. I helped him

  over in Nevada when he was ill; he came here with me, got well, and

  lived nine years, and he died without speaking one word of himself or

  telling his name."

  "What strange ends men come to!" mused Hare. Well, a grave was a grave,

  wherever it lay. He wondered if he would come to rest in that quiet

  nook, with its steady light, its simple dignity of bare plain graves

  fitting the brevity of life, the littleness of man.

  "We break wild mustangs along this stretch," said Naab, drawing Hare

  away. "It's a fine run. Wait till you see Mescal on Black Bolly tearing

  up th
e dust! She's a Navajo for riding."

  Three huge corrals filled a wide curved space in the wall. In one corral

  were the teams that had hauled the wagons from White Sage; in another

  upward of thirty burros, drooping, lazy little fellows half asleep; in

  the third a dozen or more mustangs and some horses which delighted Hare.

  Snap Naab's cream pinto, a bay, and a giant horse of mottled white

  attracted him most.

  "Our best stock is out on the range," said Naab. "The white is Charger,

  my saddle-horse. When he was a yearling he got away and ran wild for

  three years. But we caught him. He's a weight-carrier and he can run

  some. You're fond of a horse--I can see that."

  "Yes," returned Hare, "but I--I'll never ride again." He said it

  brightly, smiling the while; still the look in his eyes belied the

  cheerful resignation.

  "I've not the gift of revelation, yet I seem to see you on a big gray

  horse with a shining mane." Naab appeared to be gazing far away.

  The cottonwood grove, at the western curve of the oasis, shaded the five

  log huts where August's grown sons lived with their wives, and his own

  cabin, which was of considerable dimensions. It had a covered porch on

  one side, an open one on the other, a shingle roof, and was a roomy and

  comfortable habitation.

  Naab was pointing out the school-house when he was interrupted by

  childish laughter, shrieks of glee, and the rush of little feet.

  "It's recess-time," he said.

  A frantic crowd of tousled-headed little ones were running from the log

  school-house to form a circle under the trees. There were fourteen of

  them, from four years of age up to ten or twelve. Such sturdy, glad-eyed

  children Hare had never seen. In a few moments, as though their happy

  screams were signals, the shady circle was filled with hounds, and a

  string of puppies stepping on their long ears, and ruffling