The Heritage of the Desert

Z >> Zane Grey >> The Heritage of the Desert

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Next day Mescal drove the sheep eastward toward the crags, and about the
middle of the afternoon reached the edge of the slope. Grass grew
luxuriantly and it was easy to keep the sheep in. Moreover, that part of
the forest had fewer trees, and scarcely any sage or thickets, so that
the lambs were safer, barring danger which might lurk in the seamed and
cracked cliffs overshadowing the open grassy plots. Piute's task at the
moment was to drag dead coyotes to the rim, near at hand, and throw them
over. Mescal rested on a stone, and Wolf reclined at her feet.

Jack presently found a fresh deer track, and trailed it into the cedars,
then up the slope to where the huge rocks massed.

Suddenly a cry from Mescal halted him; another, a piercing scream of
mortal fright, sent him flying down the slope. He bounded out of the
cedars into the open.

The white, well-bunched flock had spread, and streams of jumping sheep
fled frantically from an enormous silver-backed bear.

As the bear struck right and left, a brute-engine of destruction, Jack
sent a bullet into him at long range. Stung, the grizzly whirled, bit at
his side, and then reared with a roar of fury.

But he did not see Jack. He dropped down and launched his huge bulk for
Mescal. The blood rushed back to Jack's heart, and his empty veins
seemed to freeze.

The grizzly hurdled the streams of sheep. Terror for Mescal dominated
Jack; if he had possessed wings he could not have flown quickly enough to
head the bear. Checking himself with a suddenness that fetched him to
his knees, he levelled the rifle. It waved as if it were a stick of
willow. The bead-sight described a blurred curve round the bear. Yet he
shot--in vain--again--in vain.

Above the bleat of sheep and trample of many hoofs rang out Mescal's cry,
despairing.

She had turned, her hands over her breast. Wolf spread his legs before
her and crouched to spring, mane erect, jaws wide.

By some lightning flash of memory, August Naab's words steadied Jack's
shaken nerves. He aimed low and ahead of the running bear. Down the
beast went in a sliding sprawl with a muffled roar of rage. Up he
sprang, dangling a useless leg, yet leaping swiftly forward. One blow
sent the attacking dog aside. Jack fired again. The bear became a
wrestling, fiery demon, death-stricken, but full of savage fury. Jack
aimed low and shot again.

Slowly now the grizzly reared, his frosted coat blood-flecked, his great
head swaying. Another shot. There was one wide sweep of the huge paw,
and then the bear sank forward, drooping slowly, and stretched all his
length as if to rest.

Mescal, recalled to life, staggered backward. Between her and the
outstretched paw was the distance of one short stride.

Jack, bounding up, made sure the bear was dead before he looked at
Mescal. She was faint. Wolf whined about her. Piute came running from
the cedars. Her eyes were still fixed in a look of fear.

"I couldn't run--I couldn't move," she said, shuddering. A blush drove
the white from her cheeks as she raised her face to Jack." He'd soon
have reached me."

Piute added his encomium: "Damn--heap big bear-- Jack kill um--big
chief!"

Hare laughed away his own fear and turned their attention to the
stampeded sheep. It was dark before they got the flock together again,
and they never knew whether they had found them all. Supper-time was
unusually quiet that night. Piute was jovial, but no one appeared
willing to talk save the peon, and he could only grimace. The reaction
of feeling following Mescal's escape had robbed Jack of strength of
voice; he could scarcely whisper. Mescal spoke no word; her black lashes
hid her eyes; she was silent, but there was that in her silence which was
eloquent. Wolf, always indifferent save to Mescal, reacted to the subtle
change, and as if to make amends laid his head on Jack's knees. The
quiet hour round the camp-fire passed, and sleep claimed them. Another
day dawned, awakening them fresh, faithful to their duties, regardless of
what had gone before.

So the days slipped by. June came, with more leisure for the shepherds,
better grazing for the sheep, heavier dews, lighter frosts, snow-squalls
half rain, and bursting blossoms on the prickly thorns, wild-primrose
patches in every shady spot, and bluebells lifting wan azure faces to the
sun.

The last snow-storm of June threatened all one morning; hung menacing
over the yellow crags, in dull lead clouds waiting for the wind. Then
like ships heaving anchor to a single command they sailed down off the
heights; and the cedar forest became the centre of a blinding, eddying
storm. The flakes were as large as feathers, moist, almost warm. The
low cedars changed to mounds of white; the sheep became drooping curves
of snow; the little lambs were lost in the color of their own pure
fleece. Though the storm had been long in coming it was brief in
passing. Wind-driven toward the desert, it moaned its last in the
cedars, and swept away, a sheeted pall. Out over the Canyon it floated,
trailing long veils of white that thinned out, darkened, and failed far
above the golden desert. The winding columns of snow merged into
straight lines of leaden rain; the rain flowed into vapory mist, and the
mist cleared in the gold-red glare of endless level and slope. No
moisture reached the parched desert.

Jack marched into camp with a snowy burden over his shoulder. He flung
it down, disclosing a small deer; then he shook the white mantle from his
coat, and whistling, kicked the fire-logs, and looked abroad at the
silver cedars, now dripping under the sun, at the rainbows in the
settling mists, at the rapidly melting snow on the ground.

"Got lost in that squall. Fine! Fine!" he exclaimed, and threw wide his
arms.

"Jack!" said Mescal. "Jack!" Memory had revived some forgotten thing.
The dark olive of her skin crimsoned; her eyes dilated and shadowed with
a rare change of emotion.

"Jack," she repeated.

"Well?" he replied, in surprise.

"To look at you!--I never dreamed--I'd forgotten--"

"What's the matter with me?" demanded Jack.

Wonderingly, her mind on the past, she replied: "You were dying when we
found you at White Sage."

He drew himself up with a sharp catch in his breath, and stared at her as
if he saw a ghost.

"Oh--Jack! You're going to get well!"

Her lips curved in a smile.

For an instant Jack Hare spent his soul in searching her face for truth.
While waiting for death he had utterly forgotten it; he remembered now,
when life gleamed in the girl's dark eyes. Passionate joy flooded his
heart.

"Mescal--Mescal!" he cried, brokenly. The eyes were true that shed this
sudden light on him; glad and sweet were the lips that bade him hope and
live again. Blindly, instinctively he kissed them--a kiss unutterably
grateful; then he fled into the forest, running without aim.

That flight ended in sheer exhaustion on the far rim of the plateau. The
spreading cedars seemed to have eyes; and he shunned eyes in this hour.
"God! to think I cared so much," he whispered. "What has happened?" With
time relief came to limbs, to labored breast and lungs, but not to mind.
In doubt that would not die, he looked at himself. The leanness of arms,
the flat chest, the hollows were gone. He did not recognize his own
body. He breathed to the depths of his lungs. No pain--only ex-
hilaration! He pounded his chest--no pain! He dug his trembling fingers
into the firm flesh over the apex of his right lung--the place of his
torture--no pain!

"I wanted to live!" he cried. He buried his face in the fragrant
juniper; he rolled on the soft brown mat of earth and hugged it close; he
cooled his hot cheeks in the primrose clusters. He opened his eyes to
new bright green of cedar, to sky of a richer blue, to a desert, strange,
beckoning, enthralling as life itself. He counted backward a month, two
months, and marvelled at the swiftness of time. He counted time forward,
he looked into the future, and all was beautiful--long days, long hunts,
long rides, service to his friend, freedom on the wild steppes,
blue-white dawns upon the eastern crags, red-gold sunsets over the lilac
mountains of the desert. He saw himself in triumphant health and
strength, earning day by day the spirit of this wilderness, coming to
fight for it, to live for it, and in far-off time, when he had won his
victory, to die for it.

Suddenly his mind was illumined. The lofty plateau with its healing
breath of sage and juniper had given back strength to him; the silence
and solitude and strife of his surroundings had called to something deep
within him; but it was Mescal who made this wild life sweet and
significant. It was Mescal, the embodiment of the desert spirit. Like a
man facing a great light Hare divined his love. Through all the days on
the plateau, living with her the natural free life of Indians, close to
the earth, his unconscious love had ripened. He understood now her charm
for him; he knew now the lure of her wonderful eyes, flashing fire,
desert-trained, like the falcon eyes of her Indian grandfather. The
knowledge of what she had become to him dawned with a mounting desire
that thrilled all his blood.

Twilight had enfolded the plateau when Hare traced his way back to camp.
Mescal was not there. His supper awaited him; Piute hummed a song; the
peon sat grimacing at the fire. Hare told them to eat, and moved away
toward the rim.

Mescal was at her favorite seat, with the white dog beside her; and she
watched the desert where the last glow of sunset gilded the mesas. How
cold and calm was her face! How strange to him in this new character!

"Mescal, I didn't know I loved you--then--but I know it now."

Her face dropped quickly from its level poise, hiding the brooding eyes;
her hand trembled on Wolf's head.

"You spoke the truth. I'll get well. I'd rather have had it from your
lips than from any in the world. I mean to live my life here where these
wonderful things have come to me. The friendship of the good man who
saved me, this wild, free desert, the glory of new hope, strength, life--
and love."

He took her hand in his and whispered, "For I love you. Do you care for
me? Mescal! It must be complete. Do you care--a little?"

The wind blew her dusky hair; he could not see her face; he tried gently
to turn her to him. The hand he had taken lay warm and trembling in his,
but it was not withdrawn. As he waited, in fear, in hope, it became
still. Her slender form, rigid within his arm, gradually relaxed, and
yielded to him; her face sank on his breast, and her dark hair loosened
from its band, covered her, and blew across his lips. That was his
answer.

The wind sang in the cedars. No longer a sigh, sad as thoughts of a past
forever flown, but a song of what had come to him, of hope, of life, of
Mescal's love, of the things to be!

VII
SILVERMANE

Little dew fell on the night of July first; the dawn brightened without
mists; a hot sun rose; the short summer of the plateau had begun.

As Hare rose, refreshed and happy from his breakfast, his whistle was cut
short by the Indian.

"Ugh!" exclaimed Piute, lifting a dark finger. Black Bolly had thrown
her nose-bag and slipped her halter, and she moved toward the opening in
the cedars, her head high, her black ears straight up.

"Bolly!" called Mescal. The mare did not stop.

"What the deuce?" Hare ran forward to catch her.

"I never knew Bolly to act that way," said Mescal. "See--she didn't eat
half the oats. Well, Bolly--Jack! look at Wolfl"

The white dog had risen and stood warily shifting his nose. He sniffed
the wind, turned round and round, and slowly stiffened with his head
pointed toward the eastern rise of the plateau.

"Hold, Wolf, hold!" called Mescal, as the dog appeared to be about to
dash away.

"Ugh!" grunted Piute.

"Listen, Jack; did you hear?" whispered the girl.

"Hear what?"

"Listen."

The warm breeze came down in puffs from the crags; it rustled in the
cedars and blew fragrant whiffs of camp-fire smoke into his face; and
presently it bore a low, prolonged whistle. He had never before heard
its like. The sound broke the silence again, clearer, a keen, sharp
whistle.

"What is it?" he queried, reaching for his rifle.

"Wild mustangs," said Mescal.

"No," corrected Piute, vehemently shaking his head. "Clea, Clea."

"Jack, he says 'horse, horse.' It's a wild horse."

A third time the whistle rang down from the ridge, splitting the air,
strong and trenchant, the fiery, shrill challenge of a stallion.

Black Bolly reared straight up.

Jack ran to the rise of ground above the camp, and looked over the
cedars." Oh!" he cried, and beckoned for Mescal. She ran to him, and
Piute, tying Black Bolly, hurried after. "Look! look!" cried Jack. He
pointed to a ridge rising to the left of the yellow crags. On the bare
summit stood a splendid stallion clearly silhouetted against the ruddy
morning sky. He was an iron-gray, wild and proud, with long silver-white
mane waving in the wind.

"Silvermane! Silvermane!" exclaimed Mescal.

"What a magnificent animal!" Jack stared at the splendid picture for the
moment before the horse moved back along the ridge and disappeared.
Other horses, blacks and bays, showed above the sage for a moment, and
they, too, passed out of sight.

"He's got some of his band with him," said Jack, thrilled with
excitement. "Mescal, they're down off the upper range, and grazing along
easy. The wind favors us. That whistle was just plain fight, judging
from what Naab told me of wild stallions. He came to the hilltop, and
whistled down defiance to any horse, wild or tame, that might be below.
I'll slip round through the cedars, and block the trail leading up to the
other range, and you and Piute close the gate of our trail at this end.
Then send Piute down to tell Naab we've got Silvermane."

Jack chose the lowest edge of the plateau rim where the cedars were
thickest for his detour to get behind the wild band; he ran from tree to
tree, avoiding the open places, taking advantage of the thickets, keeping
away from the ridge. He had never gone so far as the gate, but, knowing
where the trail led into a split in the crags, he climbed the slope, and
threaded a way over masses of fallen cliff, until he reached the base of
the wall. The tracks of the wildhorse band were very fresh and plain in
the yellow trail. Four stout posts guarded the opening, and a number of
bars lay ready to be pushed into place. He put them up, making a gate
ten feet high, an impregnable barrier. This done, he hurried back to
camp.

"Jack, Bolly will need more watching to-day than the sheep, unless I let
her loose. Why, she pulls and strains so she'll break that halter."

"She wants to go with the band; isn't that it?"

"I don't like to think so. But Father Naab doesn't trust Bolly, though
she's the best mustang he ever broke."

"Better keep her in," replied Jack, remembering Naab's warning. "I'll
hobble her, so if she does break loose she can't go far."

When Mescal and Jack drove in the sheep that afternoon, rather earlier
than usual, Piute had returned with August Naab, Dave, and Billy, a
string of mustangs and a pack-train of burros.

"Hello, Mescal," cheerily called August, as they came into camp. "Well
Jack--bless me! Why, my lad, how fine and brown--and yes, how you've
filled out!" He crushed Jack's hand in his broad palm, and his gray eyes
beamed. "I've not the gift of revelation--but, Jack, you're going to get
well."

"Yes, I--" He had difficulty with his enunciation, but he thumped his
breast significantly and smiled.

"Black sage and juniper!" exclaimed August. "In this air if a man
doesn't go off quickly with pneumonia, he'll get well. I never had a
doubt for you, Jack--and thank God!"

He questioned Piute and Mescal about the sheep, and was greatly pleased
with their report. He shook his head when Jack spread out the
grizzly-pelt, and asked for the story of the killing. Jack made a poor
showing with the tale and slighted his share in it, but Mescal told it as
it actually happened. And Naab's great hand resounded from Jack's
shoulder. Then, catching sight of the pile of coyote skins under the
stone shelf, he gave vent to his surprise and delight. Then he came back
to the object of his trip upon the plateau.

"So you've corralled Silvermane? Well, Jack, if he doesn't jump over the
cliff he's ours. He can't get off any other way. How many horses with
him?"

"We had no chance to count. I saw at least twelve."

"Good! He's out with his picked band. Weren't they all blacks and
bays?"

"Yes."

"Jack, the history of that stallion wouldn't make you proud of him.
We've corralled him by a lucky chance. If I don't miss my guess he's
after Bolly. He has been a lot of trouble to ranchers all the way from
the Nevada line across Utah. The stallions he's killed, the mares he's
led off! Well, Dave, shall we thirst him out, or line up a long corral?"

"Better have a look around to-morrow," replied Dave." It '11 take a lot
of chasing to run him down, but there's not a spring on the bench where
we can throw up a trap-corral. We'll have to chase him."

"Mescal, has Bolly been good since Silvermane came down?"

"No, she hasn't," declared Mescal, and told of the circumstance.

"Bolly's all right," said Billy Naab." Any mustang will do that. Keep
her belled and hobbled."

"Silvermane would care a lot about that, if he wanted Bolly, wouldn't
he?" queried Dave in quiet scorn." Keep her roped and haltered, I say."

"Dave's right," said August. "You can't trust a wild mustang any more
than a wild horse."

August was right. Black Bolly broke her halter about midnight and
escaped into the forest, hobbled as she was. The Indian heard her first,
and he awoke August, who aroused the others.

"Don't make any noise," he said, as Jack came up, throwing on his coat.
"There's likely to be some fun here presently. Bolly's loose, broke her
rope, and I think Silvermane is close. Listen sharp now."

The slight breeze favored them, the camp-fire was dead, and the night was
clear and starlit. They had not been quiet many moments when the shrill
neigh of a mustang rang out. The Naabs raised themselves and looked at
one another in the starlight.

"Now what do you think of that?" whispered Billy.

"No more than I expected. It was Bolly," replied Dave.

"Bolly it was, confound her black hide!" added August. "Now, boys, did
she whistle for Silvermane, or to warn him, which?"

"No telling," answered Billy. "Let's lie low, and take a chance on him
coming close. It proves one thing--you can't break a wild mare. That
spirit may sleep in her blood, maybe for years, but some time it'11
answer to--"

"Shut up--listen," interrupted Dave.

Jack strained his hearing, yet caught no sound, except the distant yelp
of a coyote. Moments went by.

"There!" whispered Dave.

>From the direction of the ridge came the faint rattling of stones.

"They're coming," put in Billy.

Presently sharp clicks preceded the rattles, and the sounds began to
merge into a regular rhythmic tramp. It softened at intervals, probably
when the horses were under the cedars, and strengthened as they came out
on the harder ground of the open.

"I see them," whispered Dave.

A black, undulating line wound out of the cedars, a line of horses
approaching with drooping heads, hurrying a little as they neared the
spring.

"Twenty-odd, all blacks and bays," said August, "and some of them are
mustangs. But where's Silvermane?-- hark!"

Out among the cedars rose the peculiar halting thump of a hobbled horse
trying to cover ground, followed by snorts and crashings of brush and the
pound of plunging hoofs. The long black line stopped short and began to
stamp. Then into the starlit glade below moved two shadows, the first a
great gray horse with snowy mane; the second, a small, shiny, black
mustang.

"Silvermane and Bolly!" exclaimed August, "and now she's broken her
hobbles."

The stallion, in the fulfilment of a conquest such as had made him king
of the wild ranges, was magnificent in action. Wheeling about her,
neighing, and plunging, he arched his splendid neck and pushed his head
against her. His action was that of a master. Suddenly Black Bolly
snorted and whirled down the glade. Silvermane whistled one blast of
anger or terror and thundered after her. They vanished in the gloom of
the cedars, and the band of frightened horses and mustangs clattered
after them.

"It's one on me," remarked Billy. "That little mare played us at the
finish. Caught when she was a yearling, broken better than any mustang
we ever had, she has helped us run down many a stallion, and now she runs
off with that big white-maned brute!"

"They'll make a team, and if they get out of here we'll have to chase
them to the Great Salt Basin," replied Dave.

"Mescal, that's a well-behaved mustang of yours," said August; "not only
did she break loose, but she whistled an alarm to Silvermane and his
band. Well, roll in now, everybody, and sleep."

At breakfast the following day the Naabs fell into a discussion upon the
possibility of there being other means of exit from the plateau than the
two trails already closed. They had never run any mustangs on the
plateau, and in the case of a wild horse like Silvermane, who would take
desperate chances, it was advisable to know the ground exactly. Billy
and Dave taking their mounts from the sheep-corral, where they had put
them up for the night, rode in opposite directions around the rim of the
plateau. It was triangular in shape, and some six or seven miles in
circumference; and the brothers rode around it in less than an hour.

"Corralled," said Dave, laconically.

"Good! Did you see him? What kind of a bunch has he with him?" asked his
father.

"If we get the pick of the lot it will be worth two weeks' work," replied
Dave." I saw him, and Bolly, too. I believe we can catch her easily.
She was off from the bunch, and it looks as though the mares were
jealous. I think we can run her into a cove under the wall, and get her.
Then Mescal can help us run down the stallion. And you can look out on
this end for the best level stretch to drop the line of cedars and make
our trap."

The brothers, at their father's nod, rode off into the forest. Naab had
detained the peon, and now gave him orders and sent him off.

"To-night you can stand on the rim here, and watch him signal across to
the top of Echo Cliffs to the Navajos," explained August to Jack. "I've
sent for the best breaker of wild mustangs on the desert. Dave can break
mustangs, and Piute is very good; but I want the best man in the country,
because this is a grand horse, and I intend to give him to you."

"To me!" exclaimed Hare.

"Yes, and if he's broken right at the start, he'll serve you faithfully,
and not try to bite your arm off every day, or kick your brains out. No
white man can break a wild mustang to the best advantage."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. To be truthful, I have an idea it's bad temper and lack
of patience. Just wait till you see this Navajo go at Silvermane!"

After Mescal and Piute drove down the sheep, Jack accompanied Naab to the
corral.

"I've brought up your saddle," said Naab, "and you can put it on any
mustang here."

What a pleasure it was to be in the saddle again, and to feel strength to
remain there! He rode with August all over the western end of the
plateau. They came at length to a strip of ground, higher than the
bordering forest, which was comparatively free of cedars and brush; and
when August had surveyed it once he slapped his knee with satisfaction.

"Fine, better than I hoped for! This stretch is about a mile long, and
narrow at this end. Now, Jack, you see the other side faces the rim,
this side the forest, and at the end here is a wall of rock; luckily it
curves in a half circle, which will save us work. We'll cut cedars, drag
them in line, and make a big corral against the rock. From the opening
in the corral we'll build two fences of trees; then we'll chase
Silvermane till he's done, run him down into this level, and turn him
inside the fence. No horse can break through a close line of cedars.
He'll run till he's m the corral, and then we'll rope him."

"Great!" said Jack, all enthusiasm. "But isn't it going to take a lot of
work?"

"Rather," said August, dryly. "It'll take a week to cut and drag the
cedars, let alone to tire out that wild stallion. When the finish comes
you want to be on that ledge where we'll have the corral."

They returned to camp and prepared supper. Mescal and Piute soon
arrived, and, later, Dave and Billy on jaded mustangs. Black Bolly
limped behind, stretching a long halter, an unhappy mustang with dusty,
foam-stained coat and hanging head.

"Not bad," said August, examining the lame leg." She'll be fit in a few
days, long before we need her to help run down Silvermane. Bring the
liniment and a cloth, one of you, and put her in the sheep-corral
to-night."

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