The Heritage of the Desert
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Zane Grey >> The Heritage of the Desert
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18 Etext prepared by: Bill Brewer
billbrewer@worldnet.att.net/billbrewer@ttu.edu
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
A NOVEL
BY
ZANE GREY
I
THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
"But the man's almost dead."
The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life. He opened his
eyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that
had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood a
sombre group of men.
"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. "He's the
fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He's all
but dead. Dene's outlaws are after him. Don't cross Dene."
The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a
follower of Cromwell.
"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene or
any other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God."
"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly. "You would
cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down
from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I've suffered
enough at the hands of Dene."
The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving Hare
that he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there the
strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few
days with the stern reality of the present.
"Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, like
one reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land to
worship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prospered
with the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, all
hostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever fail
to succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perils
compared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turn
from mercy because of a cut-throat outlaw? I like not the sign of the
times, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God."
"August Naab, I am a Mormon too," returned Cole, "but my hands are
stained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes and
your cattle. Yes, I know. You're strong, stronger than any of us, far
off in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons, guarded
by your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on you. He'll
ignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will steal
cattle under your very eyes. Don't make them enemies."
"I can't pass by this helpless man," rolled out August Naab's sonorous
voice.
Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward."
There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not ten
miles away. See them?"
The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to the
west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched die waste, and followed the
red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional in its
craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust rose
above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.
"See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my
prophecy," cried Cole, fanatically. "The red sunset--the sign of the
times--blood!"
A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme
west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of
striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in
the desert's sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the dark
cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round,
floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with
inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his
companions as they stared.
Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the
tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the
sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up,
to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.
"That may be God's will," said August Naab. "So be it. Martin Cole,
take your men and go."
There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups,
the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush of
fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.
A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your--
generous act--can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left
me--seeing you have women in your party."
"Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here--drink."
He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a flask
to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons. We've an
hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-dune
we'll have longer."
Hare's flagging senses rallied, and he forgot himself in wonder. While
the bustle went on, unhitching of wagon-teams, hobbling and feeding of
horses, unpacking of camp-supplies, Naab appeared to be lost in deep
meditation or prayer. Not once did he glance backward over the trail on
which peril was fast approaching. His gaze was fastened on a ridge to
the east where desert line, fringed by stunted cedars, met the pale-blue
sky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length he
turned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron pots
in position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing the
evening meal.
A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the sand,
fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night fell;
one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone of
blackness surrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry Rhine,
the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.
"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful of
grease-wood.
Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young' yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years.
Hare could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel
eye and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the
others young, were of comely, serious aspect.
"Mescal," called the Mormon.
A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.
August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family bowed
their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food laid on
the ground.
"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.
Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless this
stranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, O
Lord--Amen."
Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable to
control a painful binding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he had
learned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of this
austere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in its
place stirred something warm and living. He was glad, for if he had to
die, as he believed, either from the deed of evil men, or from this last
struggle of his wasted body, he did not want to die in bitterness. That
simple prayer recalled the home he had long since left in Connecticut,
and the time when he used to tease his sister and anger his father and
hurt his mother while grace was being said at the breakfast-table. Now
he was alone in the world, sick and dependent upon the kindness of these
strangers. But they were really friends--it was a wonderful thought.
"Mescal, wait on the stranger," said August Naab, and the girl knelt
beside him, tendering meat and drink. His nerveless fingers refused to
hold the cup, and she put it to his lips while he drank. Hot coffee
revived him; he ate and grew stronger, and readily began to talk when the
Mormon asked for his story.
"There isn't much to tell. My name is Hare. I am twenty-four. My
parents are dead. I came West because the doctors said I couldn't live
in the East. At first I got better. But my money gave out and work
became a necessity. I tramped from place to place, ending up ill in Salt
Lake City. People were kind to me there. Some one got me a job with a
big cattle company, and sent me to Marysvale, southward over the bleak
plains. It was cold; I was ill when I reached Lund. Before I even knew
what my duties were for at Lund I was to begin work--men called me a spy.
A fellow named Chance threatened me. An innkeeper led me out the back
way, gave me bread and water, and said: 'Take this road to Bane; it's
sixteen miles. If you make it some one'll give you a lift North.' I
walked all night, and all the next day. Then I wandered on till I
dropped here where you found me."
"You missed the road to Bane," said Naab." This is the trail to White
Sage. It's a trail of sand and stone that leaves no tracks, a lucky
thing for you. Dene wasn't in Lund while you were there--else you
wouldn't be here. He hasn't seen you, and he can't be certain of your
trail. Maybe he rode to Bane, but still we may find a way--"
One of his sons whistled low, causing Naab to rise slowly, to peer into
the darkness, to listen intently.
"Here, get up," he said, extending a hand to Hare. "Pretty shaky, eh?
Can you walk? Give me a hold--there.... Mescal, come." The slender
girl obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. "Take his arm." Between
them they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circle
of light.
"It wouldn't do to hide," continued Naab, lowering his voice to a swift
whisper, "that might be fatal. You're in sight from the camp-fire, but
indistinct. By-and-by the outlaws will get here, and if any of them
prowl around close, you and Mescal must pretend to be sweethearts.
Understand? They'll pass by Mormon love-makin without a second look.
Now, lad, courage...Mescal, it may save his life."
Naab returned to the fire, his shadow looming in gigantic proportions on
the white canopy of a covered wagon. Fitful gusts of wind fretted the
blaze; it roared and crackled and sputtered, now illuminating the still
forms, then enveloping them in fantastic obscurity. Hare shivered, per-
haps from the cold air, perhaps from growing dread. Westward lay the
desert, an impenetrable black void; in front, the gloomy mountain wall
lifted jagged peaks close to the stars; to the right rose the ridge, the
rocks and stunted cedars of its summit standing in weird relief.
Suddenly Hare's fugitive glance descried a dark object; he watched
intently as it moved and rose from behind the summit of the ridge to mane
a bold black figure silhouetted against the cold clearness of sky. He
saw it distinctly, realized it was close, and breathed hard as the
wind-swept mane and tail, the lean, wild shape and single plume resolved
themselves into the unmistakable outline of an Indian mustang and rider.
"Look!" he whispered to the girl." See, a mounted Indian, there on the
ridge--there, he's gone--no, I see him agate. But that's another. Look!
there are more." He ceased in breathless suspense and stared fearfully
at a line of mounted Indians moving in single file over the ridge to
become lost to view in the intervening blackness. A faint rattling of
gravel and the peculiar crack of unshod hoof on stone gave reality to
that shadowy train.
"Navajos," said Mescal.
"Navajos!" he echoed. "I heard of them at Lund; 'desert hawks' the men
called them, worse than Piutes. Must we not alarm the men?--You--aren't
you afraid?
"No."
"But they are hostile."
"Not to him." She pointed at the stalwart figure standing against the
firelight.
"Ah! I remember. The man Cole spoke of friendly Navajos. They must be
close by. What does it mean?"
"I'm not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting."
"Waiting! For what?"
"Perhaps for a signal."
"Then they were expected?
"I don't know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage and
Lund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near the
camp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naab
knows.
"Your father's risking much for me. He's good. I wish I could show my
gratitude."
"I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father.
"A niece or granddaughter, then?
"I'm no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was a
Navajo, my father a Spaniard. '
"Why!" exclaimed Hare. "When you came out of the wagon I took you for an
Indian girl. But the moment you spoke--you talk so well--no one would
dream--"
"Mormons are well educated and teach the children they raise," she said,
as he paused in embarrassment.
He Ranted to ask if she were a Mormon by religion, but the question
seemed curious and unnecessary. His interest was aroused; he realized
suddenly that he had found pleasure in her low voice; it was new and
strange, unlike any woman's voice he had ever heard; and he regarded her
closely. He had only time for a glance at her straight, dean-cut
profile, when she turned startled eyes on him, eyes black as the night.
And they were eyes that looked through and beyond him. She held up a
hand, slowly bent toward the wind, and whispered:
"Listen."
Hare heard nothing save the barking of coyotes and the breeze in the
sage. He saw, however, the men rise from round the camp-fire to face the
north, and the women climb into the wagon, and close the canvas flaps.
And he prepared himself, with what fortitude he could command for the
approach of the outlaws. He waited, straining to catch a sound. His
heart throbbed audibly, like a muffled bum, and for an endless moment his
ears seemed deadened to aught else. Then a stronger puff of wind whipped
in, banging the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs. Suspense ended. Hare
felt the easing of a weight upon him Whatever was to be his fate, it
would be soon decided The sound grew into a clattering roar. A black
mass hurled itself over the border of opaque circle, plunged into tile
light, and halted.
August Naab deliberately threw a bundle of grease-wood upon the
camp-fire. A blaze leaped up, sending abroad a red flare. "Who comes?"
he called.
"Friends, Mormons, friends," was the answer.
"Get down--friends--and come to the fire."
Three horsemen advanced to the foreground; others, a troop of eight or
ten, remained in the shadow, a silent group.
Hare sank back against the stone. He knew the foremost of those horsemen
though he had never seen him.
"Dene," whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.
Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw.
Glimpses that he had caught of "bad" men returned vividly as he noted the
clean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless mien.
Dene's eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the sand
out of them; and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely friendly
manner would have disarmed suspicion.
"Are you the Mormon Naab?" he queried.
"August Naab, I am."
"Dry camp, eh? Hosses tired, I reckon. Shore it's a sandy trail.
Where's the rest of you fellers?"
"Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage to-night. They were
travelling light; I've heavy wagons."
"Naab, I reckon you shore wouldn't tell a lie?"
"I have never lied."
"Heerd of a young feller thet was in Lund--pale chap--lunger, we'd call
him back West?"
"I heard that he had been mistaken for a spy at Lund and had fled toward
Bane."
"Hadn't seen nothin' of him this side of Lund?"
"No."
"Seen any Navvies?"
"Yes."
The outlaw stared hard at him. Apparently he was about to speak of the
Navajos, for his quick uplift of head at Naab's blunt affirmative
suggested the impulse. But he checked himself and slowly drew on his
gloves.
"Naab, I'm shore comin' to visit you some day. Never been over thet
range. Heerd you hed fine water, fine cattle. An' say, I seen thet
little Navajo girl you have, an' I wouldn't mind seein' her again."
August Naab kicked the fire into brighter blaze. "Yes fine range," he
presently replied, his gaze fixed on Dene. "Fine water, fine cattle,
fine browse. I've a fine graveyard, too; thirty graves, and not one a
woman's. Fine place for graves, the canyon country. You don't have to
dig. There's one grave the Indians never named; it's three thousand feet
deep."
"Thet must be in hell," replied Dene, with a smile, Ignoring the covert
meaning. He leisurely surveyed Naab's four sons, the wagons and horses,
till his eye fell upon Hare and Mescal. With that he swung in his saddle
as if to dismount.
"I shore want a look around."
"Get down, get down," returned the Mormon. The deep voice, unwelcoming,
vibrant with an odd ring, would have struck a less suspicious man than
Dene. The outlaw wrung his leg back over the pommel, sagged in the
saddle, and appeared to be pondering the question. Plainly he was
uncertain of his ground. But his indecision was brief.
"Two-Spot, you look 'em over," he ordered.
The third horseman dismounted and went toward the wagons.
Hare, watching this scene, became conscious that his fear had intensified
with the recognition of Two-Spot as Chance, the outlaw whom he would not
soon forget. In his excitement he moved against Mescal and felt her
trembling violently.
"Are you afraid?" he whispered.
"Yes, of Dene."
The outlaw rummaged in one of the wagons, pulled aside the canvas flaps
of the other, laughed harshly, and then with clinking spurs tramped
through the camp, kicking the beds, overturning a pile of saddles, and
making disorder generally, till he spied the couple sitting on the stone
in the shadow.
As the outlaw lurched that way, Hare, with a start of recollection, took
Mescal in his arms and leaned his head against hers. He felt one of her
hands lightly brush his shoulder and rest there, trembling.
Shuffling footsteps scraped the sand, sounded nearer and nearer, slowed
and paused.
"Sparkin'! Dead to the world. Ham! Haw! Haw!"
The coarse laugh gave place to moving footsteps. The rattling clink of
stirrup and spur mingled with the restless stamp of horse. Chance had
mounted. Dene's voice drawled out: "Good-bye, Naab, I shore will see you
all some day." The heavy thuds of many hoofs evened into a roar that
diminished as it rushed away.
In unutterable relief Hare realized his deliverance. He tried to rise,
but power of movement had gone from him.
He was fainting, yet his sensations were singularly acute. Mescal's hand
dropped from his shoulder; her cheek, that had been cold against his,
grew hot; she quivered through all her slender length. Confusion claimed
his senses. Gratitude and hope flooded his soul. Something sweet and
beautiful, the touch of this desert girl, rioted in his blood; his heart
swelled in exquisite agony. Then he was whirling in darkness; and he
knew no more.
II
WHITE SAGE
THE night was as a blank to Hare; the morning like a drifting of hazy
clouds before his eyes. He felt himself moving; and when he awakened
clearly to consciousness he lay upon a couch on the vine-covered porch of
a cottage. He saw August Naab open a garden gate to admit Martin Cole.
They met as friends; no trace of scorn marred August's greeting, and
Martin was not the same man who had shown fear on the desert. His
welcome was one of respectful regard for his superior.
"Elder, I heard you were safe in," he said, fervently. "We feared--I
know not what. I was distressed till I got the news of your arrival.
How's the young man?"
"He's very ill. But while there's life there's hope."
"Will the Bishop administer to him?"
"Gladly, if the young man's willing. Come, let's go in."
"Wait, August," said Cole." Did you know your son Snap was in the
village?"
"My son here!" August Naab betrayed anxiety. 'I left him home with work.
He shouldn't have come. Is--is he--"
"He's drinking and in an ugly mood. It seems he traded horses with Jeff
Larsen, and got the worst of the deal. There's pretty sure to be a
fight."
"He always hated Larsen."
"Small wonder. Larsen is mean; he's as bad as we've got and that's
saying a good deal. Snap has done worse things than fight with Larsen.
He's doing a worse thing now, August--he's too friendly with Dene."
"I've heard--I've heard it before. But, Martin, what can I do?"
"Do? God knows. What can any of us do? Times have changed, August.
Dene is here in White Sage, free, welcome in many homes. Some of our
neighbors, perhaps men we trust, are secret members of this rustler's
band."
"You're right, Cole. There are Mormons who are cattle-thieves. To my
eternal shame I confess it. Under cover of night they ride with Dene,
and here in our midst they meet him in easy tolerance. Driven from
Montana he comes here to corrupt our young men. God's mercy!"
"August, some of our young men need no one to corrupt them. Dene had no
great task to win them. He rode in here with a few outlaws and now he
has a strong band. We've got to face it. We haven't any law, but he can
be killed. Some one must kill him. Yet bad as Dene is, he doesn't
threaten our living as Holderness does. Dene steals a few cattle, kills
a man here and there. Holderness teaches out and takes our springs.
Because we've no law to stop him, he steals the blood of our life--water--
water--God's gift to the desert! Some one must kill Holderness, too!"
"Martin, this lust to kill is a fearful thing. Come in, you must pray
with the Bishop."
"No, it's not prayer I need, Elder," replied Cole, stubbornly. "I'm still
a good Mormon. What I want is the stock I've lost, and my fields green
again."
August Naab had no answer for his friend. A very old man with snow-white
hair and beard came out on the porch.
"Bishop, brother Martin is railing again," said Naab, as Cole bared his
head.
"Martin, my son, unbosom thyself," rejoined the Bishop.
"Black doubt and no light," said Cole, despondently. "I'm of the younger
generation of Mormons, and faith is harder for me. I see signs you can't
see. I've had trials hard to bear. I was rich in cattle, sheep, and
water. These Gentiles, this rancher Holderness and this outlaw Dene,
have driven my cattle, killed my sheep, piped my water off my fields. I
don't like the present. We are no longer in the old days. Our young men
are drifting away, and the few who return come with ideas opposed to
Mormonism. Our girls and boys are growing up influenced by the Gentiles
among us. They intermarry, and that's a death-blow to our creed."
"Martin, cast out this poison from your heart. Return to your faith.
The millennium will come. Christ will reign on earth again. The ten
tribes of Israel will be restored. The Book of Mormon is the Word of
God. The creed will live. We may suffer here and die, but our spirits
will go marching on; and the Ciy of Zion will be builded over our
graves."
Cole held up his hands in a meekness that signified hope if not faith.
August Naab bent over Hare. "I would like to have the Bishop administer
to you," he said.
"What's that?" asked Hare.
"A Mormon custom, 'the laying on of hands.' We know its efficacy in
trouble and illness. A Bishop of the Mormon Church has the gift of
tongues, of prophecy, of revelation, of healing. Let him administer to
you. It entails no obligation. Accept it as a prayer."
"I'm willing." replied the young man.
Thereupon Naab spoke a few low words to some one through the open door.
Voices ceased; soft footsteps sounded without; women crossed the
threshold, followed by tall young men and rosy-checked girls and
round-eyed children. A white-haired old woman came forward with solemn
dignity. She carried a silver bowl which she held for the Bishop as he
stood close by Hare's couch. The Bishop put his hands into the bowl,
anointing them with fragrant oil; then he placed them on the young man's
head, and offered up a brief prayer, beautiful in its simplicty and
tremulous utterance.
The ceremony ended, the onlookers came forward with pleasant words on
their lips, pleasant smiles on their faces. The children filed by his
couch, bashful yet sympathetic; the women murmured, the young men grasped
his hand. Mescal flitted by with downcast eye, with shy smile, but no
word.
"Your fever is gone," said August Naab, with his hand on Hare's cheek.
"It comes and goes suddenly," replied Hare. "I feel better now, only I'm
oppressed. I can't breathe freely. I rant air, and I'm hungry."
"Mother Mary, the lad's hungry. Judith, Esther, where are your wits?
Help your mother. Mescal, wait on him, roe to his comfort."
Mescal brought a little table and a pillow, and the other girls soon
followed with food and drink; then they hovered about, absorbed in caring
for him.
"They said I fell among thieves," mused Hare, when he was once more
alone. "I've fallen among saints as well." He felt that he could never
repay this August Naab. "If only I might live!" he ejaculated. How
restful was this cottage garden! The green sward was a balm to his eyes.
Flowers new to him, though of familiar springtime hue, lifted fresh faces
everywhere; fruit-trees, with branches intermingling, blended the white
and pink of blossoms. There was the soft laughter of children in the
garden. Strange birds darted among the trees. Their notes were new, but
their song was the old delicious monotone--the joy of living and love of
spring. A green-bowered irrigation ditch led by the porch and unseen
water flowed gently, with gurgle and tinkle, with music in its hurry.
Innumerable bees murmured amid the blossoms.
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