WINONA, THE INDIAN MAIDEN
Luckily for Tom’s comfort, the storm which had threatened when he
left V. M. Ranch was turned by a changing wind toward the south;
and, when the chill grey of daylight came, he found that he had
ridden many miles to the north and that he was slowly crossing a
vast, wild broken upland, which was gradually ascending toward a
range of mountains that looked grim, lonely and forbidding.
In those barren walls of rock, Virginia had told him that he would
find the almost hidden entrance to the Papago Indian village.
No creature was in sight at that early hour save a low sailing hawk,
and, now and then, a lizard, frightened by the horse’s hoofs, darted
across the trail. So near was it to the color of the sand that only
by its quick flashing motion could it be discerned.
As Tom neared the seemingly impenetrable wall of rock, it was hard
for him to believe that this was really a fortress surrounding a
village of any kind. He was weary and hungry, but, try as he might,
he could not find the entrance.
[Illustration: When the two riders appeared a pack of wolf-dogs made
a mad rush at the stranger.]
Suddenly his horse snorted and stopped. Tom wondered what it had
heard for surely there was nothing to see, but he was not long
puzzled, for a second later a lean, shaggy pony, ridden by a small
Indian boy, emerged from what seemed to be solid rock. Tom urged his
horse forward and hailed the little fellow who, after looking at the
stranger with startled eyes, seemed about to return by the way he
had come. Then it was Tom remembered something. He had been told to
say to the first Indian he met, “Virginia Davis sent me,” which
sentence, he had been assured would prove an open sesame that would
win for him admittance and welcome.
Nor had he been misinformed, for, when the small Indian boy who was
about to disappear, heard the name which Tom called, he smiled,
showing two rows of gleaming white teeth, and then, silently
beckoning he led the way through a crevice, so narrow that Tom no
longer wondered that it had escaped his observation.
It gradually widened, however, into a canyon which at last opened
into a huge bowl-shaped valley where the grass was green and where
clumps of scarlet flowers were blossoming.
Scattering about were a dozen or more low adobe huts and in the
midst of them in a large corral were many wiry Indian ponies.
When the two riders appeared a pack of wolf-dogs made a mad rush at
the stranger, barking furiously. However at a word of command from
the small Indian boy, they slunk away, to Tom’s secret relief. The
lad had evidently assured them that the intruder was a friend and
not a foe.
The Indian boy knew little English, but he led Tom to the most
imposing of the adobe huts. There he paused and uttered a cry like
that of some wild bird.
Tom gazed curiously at the open door which was festooned with dried
red peppers. He wondered who would appear. He hoped and believed
that it would be Winona, the Indian maiden, who was Virginia’s
friend, but instead a shriveled old Indian woman wrapped in a
bright-colored blanket shuffled to the door and evidently asked the
lad what he wished at the home of the chief.
Tom understood only one word in the lad’s reply and that was
“Winona.” For answer the old woman silently pointed toward the
nearest cliff. Tom, looking in that direction, saw a graceful Indian
girl approaching and on her head she was balancing a very large red
pottery jar which was almost brimming full of sparkling water from a
mountain spring.
Whirling his pony, the little Indian had galloped toward the dusky
maiden, who paused to listen to what he had to say with an eager
interest.
Then, placing her water jar upon a large, flat rock, she approached
the newcomer who had dismounted, having first assured himself that
the pack of wolf-like dogs was not in evidence.
To his surprise the Indian maiden spoke in the English language and,
without the least embarrassment held out her slim, dark hand as she
said, “Welcome, Virginia’s friend. You have traveled far and are
hungry. I am Winona and I will give you breakfast.”
Tom thanked her and, as she was about to lift the jar again to her
head, he said with his frank, friendly smile, “I ought to offer to
carry that, but I fear I could not manage it as skillfully as you
do. Since it is without handles, it must be a difficult feat.”
Winona smiled up at him as they walked side by side; the Indian lad,
whose name was Red Feather, having taken Tom’s horse to the corral.
“Perhaps,” she replied, “but we learn early and do not forget. Look
yonder.”
Tom’s glance followed that of Winona and he saw a group of little
Indian girls, the oldest not more than 10. They were coming from a
mountain spring and each was balancing a water jar upon her head.
The small girls gathered about gazing half shyly and half curiously
at the newcomer, until Winona spoke a few words in a tone of gentle
rebuke, then the little, wild, coyote-like creatures scattered and
soon disappeared in different mud huts.
“What did you say to them, Winona?” Tom asked curiously.
The Indian girl’s smile was almost merry. “That it isn’t manners to
stare at company,” was the reply. “For seven winters, as Virginia
told you, I learned the white man’s way, and now I have a little
class and teach what I learned. Here we are at my home. My father
awaits to welcome you.”
Tom saw an old Indian squatted upon the mud porch, and about his
jet-black hair was a band into which had been woven with garnet
beads the emblem of the tribe.
“My father, Chief Grey Hawk, this is Tom, friend of Virginia.” The
bronzed, wrinkled face had a kindly expression as the old man
replied in his own tongue, offering hospitality.
“Sit and rest and I will bring refreshment,” Winona said as she went
within, soon to return with steaming coffee and a hard cake made
from Indian meal.
The chief having retired, Winona sat beside Tom on the adobe porch
and asked many questions about Virginia.
An hour later Tom bade the Indian girl farewell, and with little Red
Feather as guide, he again rode toward the north. As he looked ahead
at the rugged, uninviting mountains, in his heart there was an
impulse to whirl his horse about and gallop back to the V. M. Ranch,
whatever the consequences, but instead he followed the lad who led
the way across an ever rising sandy waste where there was no sign of
a trail. Had there been one the frequent whirlwinds would have
hidden it with sand.
Tom wondered if the Indian boy had the same unerring instinct that a
bird seems to have in its flight. Once only did the small guide
pause and listen. Tom, too, drew rein, but heard nothing, although
it was evident that the Indian lad did. He was intently watching a
sandhill nearby, around which, in another moment, there appeared a
bunch of wild, shaggy ponies, but, upon seeing Tom and Red Feather,
with a shrill whistle-like neighing, they whirled about and galloped
in the other direction and were soon hidden in a cloud of sand.
The Indian lad looked back and his white teeth gleamed as he said,
“Much pony-wild.”
That was his first attempt at speaking the English language and
would have surprised Tom greatly had he not recalled that Red
Feather was probably a pupil in Winona’s little class, and so,
riding closer, he asked, “Is it far yet we go? Long way?”
The lad shook his head. He had understood. “One up, one down,” was
his curious reply. Tom decided that the little fellow meant that
they would cross one more range of mountains and then descend into a
valley, nor was he wrong, for they were soon climbing a clearly
defined mountain trail and at last reached a high point from which
Tom could see, far below them, a wide, fertile valley.
Red Feather drew rein and pointed. “Sheep,” he said. “I go back.”
Not waiting for Tom to express his gratitude, and without a formal
farewell, the Indian lad returned by the way he had come.
Tom, believing that the sheep ranch he sought lay in the valley
below, started the descent.
As he neared the group of low, white-washed buildings, Tom felt in
his heart a strange loneliness and a sense of homesickness for the
V. M. Ranch.
After years of wandering, the few days he had spent there had meant
so much to him, but it had been Virginia’s wish that he seek refuge
on this sheep ranch, and so he rode on, wondering what manner of
welcome he would receive.
Mr. Wilson and his 18-year-old son, Harry, were mounted and
apparently about to ride away from the big white-washed ranch house
when they perceived the newcomer and drew rein to await him. They
wondered who the visitor might be, as few riders passed that way,
the sheep ranch being isolated and difficult of access.
When the lad was within hailing distance, Mr. Wilson, in his bluff,
hearty manner, called:
“Welcome, stranger!”
Tom responded to the greeting and said:
“Mr. Wilson, I am from the V. M. Ranch. An old cattleman, whom they
call ‘Uncle Tex,’ brought word that you were in need of help and I
have come to apply for a position.”
“Good! We do indeed need help,” was the hearty response. “Have you
any knowledge of sheep?”
“None whatever,” was the frank reply, “and before I accept a
position with you, I would like to tell you just who I am.”
“That is not at all necessary,” Mr. Wilson replied, heartily. “Your
honest face and manner are all the recommendations that you need.
Your past, my boy, is past. Your present will be what you make it
now.” Then he added, “This is my son, Harry. What shall we call
you?”
“Tom,” was the simple reply.
“Tom,” Mr. Wilson repeated, “you have come at a very opportune time.
Harry and I were just setting out for the Red Canyon camp. Our
herder there, Juan, reports that many sheep are being killed in his
flock, but that alone he cannot watch them at all hours. Of course
he must have sleep, and although I am really needed on the home
ranch, I am so short of help that I was about to accompany Harry.
Will you go in my place?”
“Gladly, sir,” Tom replied.
“Then first come within and have refreshments and meet the Little
Mother who makes home for us.”
Mrs. Wilson welcomed the lad with the same kindliness that her
husband extended to him and led him at once to the big, comfortable
kitchen where he was soon given a bountiful dinner, which he greatly
appreciated.
An hour later, with Harry and on a fresh mount, Tom started again
toward the north. The boys liked each other at once. Tom was soon
asking many questions about sheep ranching, which the other lad
seemed glad to answer.
Then, for a time, they rode on silently. Tom was thinking how
pleased Virginia would be if she could know of the kindly welcome he
had received. How he wished that he could write to her.
“Can one send a letter from here to the V. M. Ranch?” he inquired.
“Yes,” Harry replied; “about once a month we send our mail to Red
River Junction, which is thirty miles away. Little Francisco will go
to town in about a week.”