guidance of several warriors who knew every trail of the range, every
waterhole, every cranny where even a wolf might hide. They swept the
river-end of the plateau, and working westward, scoured the levels,
ridges, valleys, climbed to the peaks, and sent their Indian dogs into
the thickets and caves. From Eschtah's encampment westward the hogans
diminished in number till only one here and there was discovered, hidden
under a yellow wall, or amid a clump of cedars. All the Indians met with
were sternly questioned by the chiefs, their dwellings were searched,
and the ground about their waterholes was closely examined. Mile after
mile the plateau was covered by these Indians, who beat the brush and
penetrated the fastnesses with a hunting instinct that left scarcely a
rabbit-burrow unrevealed. The days sped by; the circle of the sun arched
higher; the patches of snow in high places disappeared; and the search
proceeded westward. They camped where the night overtook them, sometimes
near water and grass, sometimes in bare dry places. To the westward the
plateau widened. Rugged ridges rose here and there, and seared crags
split the sky like sharp sawteeth. And after many miles of wild up-
ranging they reached a divide which marked the line of Eschtah's domain.
Naab's dogged persistence and the Navajos' faithfulness carried them
into the country of the Moki Indians, a tribe classed as slaves by the
proud race of Eschtah. Here they searched the villages and ancient tombs
and ruins, but of Mescal there was never a trace.
Hare rode as diligently and searched as indefatigably as August, but he
never had any real hope of finding the girl. To hunt for her, however,
despite its hopelessness, was a melancholy satisfaction, for never was
she out of his mind.
Nor was the month's hard riding with the Navajos without profit. He made
friends with the Indians, and learned to speak many of their words. Then
a whole host of desert tricks became part of his accumulating knowledge.
In climbing the crags, in looking for water and grass, in loosing
Silvermane at night and searching for him at dawn, in marking tracks on
hard ground, in all the sight and feeling and smell of desert things he
learned much from the Navajos. The whole outward life of the Indian was
concerned with the material aspect of Nature--dust, rock, air, wind,
smoke, the cedars, the beasts of the desert. These things made up the
Indians' day. The Navajos were worshippers of the physical; the sun was
their supreme god. In the mornings when the gray of dawn flushed to rosy
red they began their chant to the sun. At sunset the Navajos were
watchful and silent with faces westward. The Moki Indians also, Hare
observed, had their morning service to the great giver of light. In the
gloom of early dawn, before the pink appeared in the east, and all was
whitening gray, the Mokis emerged from their little mud and stone huts
and sat upon the roofs with blanketed and drooping heads.
One day August Naab showed in few words how significant a factor the sun
was in the lives of desert men.
“We've got to turn back,” he said to Hare. “The sun's getting hot and
the snow will melt in the mountains. If the Colorado rises too high we
can't cross.”
They were two days in riding back to the encampment. Eschtah received
them in dignified silence, expressive of his regret. When their time of
departure arrived he accompanied them to the head of the nearest trail,
which started down from Saweep Peak, the highest point of Echo Cliffs.
It was the Navajos' outlook over the Painted Desert.
“Mescal is there,” said August Naab. “She's there with the slave Eschtah
gave her. He leads Mescal. Who can follow him there?”
The old chieftain reined in his horse, beside the time-hollowed trail,
and the same hand that waved his white friend downward swept up in slow
stately gesture toward the illimitable expanse. It was a warrior's
salute to an unconquered world. Hare saw in his falcon eyes the still
gleam, the brooding fire, the mystical passion that haunted the eyes of
Mescal.
“The slave without a tongue is a wolf. He scents the trails and the
waters. Eschtah's eyes have grown old watching here, but he has seen no
Indian who could follow Mescal's slave. Eschtah will lie there, but no
Indian will know the path to the place of his sleep. Mescal's trail is
lost in the sand. No man may find it. Eschtah's words are wisdom. Look!”
To search for any living creatures in that borderless domain of colored
dune, of shifting cloud of sand, of purple curtain shrouding mesa and
dome, appeared the vainest of all human endeavors. It seemed a veritable
rainbow realm of the sun. At first only the beauty stirred Hare--he saw
the copper belt close under the cliffs, the white beds of alkali and
washes of silt farther out, the wind-ploughed canyons and dust-
encumbered ridges ranging west and east, the scalloped slopes of the
flat tableland rising low, the tips of volcanic peaks leading the eye
beyond to veils and vapors hovering over blue clefts and dim line of
level lanes, and so on, and on, out to the vast unknown. Then Hare
grasped a little of its meaning. It was a sun-painted, sun-governed
world. Here was deep and majestic Nature eternal and unchangeable. But
it was only through Eschtah's eyes that he saw its parched slopes, its
terrifying desolateness, its sleeping death.
When the old chieftain's lips opened Hare anticipated the austere
speech, the import that meant only pain to him, and his whole inner
being seemed to shrink.
“The White Prophet's child of red blood is lost to him,” said Eschtah.
“The Flower of the Desert is as a grain of drifting sand.”
XIII. THE SOMBRE LINE
AUGUST NAAB hoped that Mescal might have returned in his absence; but to
Hare such hope was vain. The women of the oasis met them with gloomy
faces presaging bad news, and they were reluctant to tell it. Mescal's
flight had been forgotten in the sterner and sadder misfortune that had
followed.
Snap Naab's wife lay dangerously ill, the victim of his drunken frenzy.
For days after the departure of August and Jack the man had kept himself
in a stupor; then his store of drink failing, he had come out of his
almost senseless state into an insane frenzy. He had tried to kill his
wife and wreck his cottage, being prevented in the nick of time by Dave
Naab, the only one of his brothers who dared approach him. Then he had
ridden off on the White Sage trail and had not been heard from since.
The Mormon put forth all his skill in surgery and medicine to save the
life of his son's wife, but he admitted that he had grave misgivings as
to her recovery. But these in no manner affected his patience,
gentleness, and cheer. While there was life there was hope, said August
Naab. He bade Hare, after he had rested awhile, to pack and ride out to
the range, and tell his sons that he would come later.
It was a relief to leave the oasis, and Hare started the same day, and
made Silver Cup that night. As he rode under the low-branching cedars
toward the bright camp-fire he looked about him sharply. But not one of
the four faces ruddy in the glow belonged to Snap Naab.
“Hello, Jack,” called Dave Naab, into the dark. “I knew that was you.
Silvermane sure rings bells when he hoofs it down the stones. How're you
and dad? and did you find Mescal? I'll bet that desert child led you
clear to the Little Colorado.”
Hare told the story of the fruitless search.
“It's no more than we expected,” said Dave. “The man doesn't live who
can trail the peon. Mescal's like a captured wild mustang that's slipped
her halter and gone free. She'll die out there on the desert or turn
into a stalk of the Indian cactus for which she's named. It's a pity,
for she's a good girl, too good for Snap.”
“What's your news?” inquired Hare.
“Oh, nothing much,” replied Dave, with a short laugh. “The cattle
wintered well. We've had little to do but hang round and watch. Zeke and
I chased old Whitefoot one day, and got pretty close to Seeping Springs.
We met Joe Stube, a rider who was once a friend of Zeke's. He's with
Holderness now, and he said that Holderness had rebuilt the corrals at
the spring; also he has put up a big cabin, and he has a dozen riders
there. Stube told us Snap had been shooting up White Sage. He finished
up by killing Snood. They got into an argument about you.”
“About me!”
“Yes, it seems that Snood took your part, and Snap wouldn't stand for
it. Too bad! Snood was a good fellow. There's no use talking, Snap's
going too far--he is--” Dave did not conclude his remark, and the
silence was more significant than any utterance.
“What will the Mormons in White Sage say about Snap's killing Snood?”
“They've said a lot. This even-break business goes all right among gun-
fighters, but the Mormons call killing murder. They've outlawed Culver,
and Snap will be outlawed next.”
“Your father hinted that Snap would find the desert too small for him
and me?”
“Jack, you can't be too careful. I've wanted to speak to you about it.
Snap will ride in here some day and then--” Dave's pause was not
reassuring.
And it was only on the third day after Dave's remark that Hare, riding
down the mountain with a deer he had shot, looked out from the trail and
saw Snap's cream pinto trotting toward Silver Cup. Beside Snap rode a
tall man on a big bay. When Hare reached camp he reported to George and
Zeke what he had seen, and learned in reply that Dave had already caught
sight of the horsemen, and had gone down to the edge of the cedars.
While they were speaking Dave hurriedly ran up the trail.
“It's Snap and Holderness,” he called out, sharply. “What's Snap doing
with Holderness? What's he bringing him here for?”
“I don't like the looks of it,” replied Zeke, deliberately.
“Jack, what'll you do?” asked Dave, suddenly.
“Do? What can I do? I'm not going to run out of camp because of a visit
from men who don't like me.”
“It might be wisest.”
“Do you ask me to run to avoid a meeting with your brother?”
“No.” The dull red came to Dave's cheek. “But will you draw on him?”
“Certainly not. He's August Naab's son and your brother.”
“Yes, and you're my friend, which Snap won't think of. Will you draw on
Holderness, then?”
“For the life of me, Dave, I can't tell you,” replied Hare, pacing the
trail. “Something must break loose in me before I can kill a man. I'd
draw, I suppose, in self-defence. But what good would it do me to pull
too late? Dave, this thing is what I've feared. I'm not afraid of Snap
or Holderness, not that way. I mean I'm not ready. Look here, would
either of them shoot an unarmed man?”
“Lord, I hope not; I don't think so. But you're packing your gun.”
Hare unbuckled his cartridge-belt, which held his Colt, and hung it over
the pommel of his saddle; then he sat down on one of the stone seats
near the camp-fire.
“There they come,” whispered Zeke, and he rose to his feet, followed by
George.
“Steady, you fellows,” said Dave, with a warning glance. “I'll do the
talking.”
Holderness and Snap appeared among the cedars, and trotting out into the
glade reined in their mounts a few paces from the fire. Dave Naab stood
directly before Hare, and George and Zeke stepped aside.
“Howdy, boys?” called out Holderness, with a smile, which was like a
gleam of light playing on a frozen lake. His amber eyes were steady,
their gaze contracted into piercing yellow points. Dave studied the
cattle-man with cool scorn, but refusing to speak to him, addressed his
brother.
“Snap, what do you mean by riding in here with this fellow?”
“I'm Holderness's new foreman. We're just looking round,” replied Snap.
The hard lines, the sullen shade, the hawk-beak cruelty had returned
tenfold to his face and his glance was like a living, leaping flame.
“New foreman!” exclaimed Dave. His jaw dropped and he stared in
amazement. “No--you can't mean that--you're drunk!”
“That's what I said,” growled Snap.
“You're a liar!” shouted Dave, a crimson blot blurring with the brown on
his cheeks. He jumped off the ground in his fury.
“It's true, Naab; he's my new foreman,” put in Holderness, suavely. “A
hundred a month--in gold--and I've got as good a place for you.”
“Well, by G--d!” Dave's arms came down and his face blanched to his
lips. “Holderness!”
“I know what you'd say,” interrupted the ranchman.
“But stop it. I know you're game. And what's the use of fighting? I'm
talking business. I'll--”
“You can't talk business or anything else to me,” said Dave Naab, and he
veered sharply toward his brother. “Say it again, Snap Naab. You've
hired out to ride for this man?”
“That's it.”
“You're going against your father, your brothers, your own flesh and
blood?”
“I can't see it that way.”
“Then you're a drunken, easily-led fool. This man's no rancher. He's a
rustler. He ruined Martin Cole, the father of your first wife. He's
stolen our cattle; he's jumped our water-rights. He's trying to break
us. For God's sake, ain't you a man?”
“Things have gone bad for me,” replied Snap, sullenly, shifting in his
saddle. “I reckon I'll do better to cut out alone for myself.”
“You crooked cur! But you're only my half-brother, after all. I always
knew you'd come to something bad, but I never thought you'd disgrace the
Naabs and break your father's heart. Now then, what do you want here? Be
quick. This's our range and you and your boss can't ride here. You can't
even water your horses. Out with it!”
At this, Hare, who had been so absorbed as to forget himself, suddenly
felt a cold tightening of the skin of his face, and a hard swell of his
breast. The dance of Snap's eyes, the downward flit of his hand seemed
instantaneous with a red flash and loud report. Instinctively Hare
dodged, but the light impact of something like a puff of air gave place
to a tearing hot agony. Then he slipped down, back to the stone, with a
bloody hand fumbling at his breast.
Dave leaped with tigerish agility, and knocking up the levelled Colt,
held Snap as in a vise. George Naab gave Holderness's horse a sharp kick
which made the mettlesome beast jump so suddenly that his rider was
nearly unseated. Zeke ran to Hare and laid him back against the stone.
“Cool down, there!” ordered Zeke. “He's done for.”
“My God--my God!” cried Dave, in a broken voice. “Not--not dead?”
“Shot through the heart!”
Dave Naab flung Snap backward, almost off his horse. “D--n you! run, or
I'll kill you. And you, Holderness! Remember! If we ever meet again--you
draw!” He tore a branch from a cedar and slashed both horses. They
plunged out of the glade, and clattering over the stones, brushing the
cedars, disappeared. Dave groped blindly back toward his brothers.
“Zeke, this's awful. Another murder by Snap! And my friend!... Who's to
tell father?”
Then Hare sat up, leaning against the stone, his shirt open and his bare
shoulder bloody; his face was pale, but his eyes were smiling. “Cheer
up, Dave. I'm not dead yet.”
“Sure he's not,” said Zeke. “He ducked none too soon, or too late, and
caught the bullet high up in the shoulder.”
Dave sat down very quietly without a word, and the hand he laid on
Hare's knee shook a little.
“When I saw George go for his gun,” went on Zeke, “I knew there'd be a
lively time in a minute if it wasn't stopped, so I just said Jack was
dead.”
“Do you think they came over to get me?” asked Hare.
“No doubt,” replied Dave, lifting his face and wiping the sweat from his
brow. “I knew that from the first, but I was so dazed by Snap's going
over to Holderness that I couldn't keep my wits, and I didn't mark Snap
edging over till too late.”
“Listen, I hear horses,” said Zeke, looking up from his task over Hare's
wound.
“It's Billy, up on the home trail,” added George. “Yes, and there's
father with him. Good Lord, must we tell him about Snap?”
“Some one must tell him,” answered Dave.
“That'll be you, then. You always do the talking.”
August Naab galloped into the glade, and swung himself out of the
saddle. “I heard a shot. What's this? Who's hurt?--Hare! Why--lad--how
is it with you?”
“Not bad,” rejoined Hare.
“Let me see,” August thrust Zeke aside. “A bullet-hole--just missed the
bone--not serious. Tie it up tight. I'll take him home to-morrow....
Hare, who's been here?”
“Snap rode in and left his respects.”
“Snap! Already? Yet I knew it--I saw it. You had Providence with you,
lad, for this wound is not bad. Snap surprised you, then?”
“No. I knew it was coming.”
“Jack hung his belt and gun on Silvermane's saddle,” said Dave. “He
didn't feel as if he could draw on either Snap or Holderness--”
“Holderness!”
“Yes. Snap rode in with Holderness. Hare thought if he was unarmed they
wouldn't draw. But Snap did.”
“Was he drunk?”
“No. They came over to kill Hare.” Dave went on to recount the incident
in full. “And--and see here, dad--that's not all. Snap's gone to the
bad.”
Dave Naab hid his face while he told of his brother's treachery; the
others turned away, and Hare closed his eyes.
For long moments there was silence broken only by the tramp of the old
man as he strode heavily to and fro. At last the footsteps ceased, and
Hare opened his eyes to see Naab's tall form erect, his arms uplifted,
his shaggy head rigid.
“Hare,” began August, presently. “I'm responsible for this cowardly
attack on you. I brought you out here. This is the second one. Beware of
the third! I see--but tell me, do you remember that I said you must meet
Snap as man to man?”
“Yes.”
“Don't you want to live?”
“Of course.”
“You hold to no Mormon creed?”
“Why, no,” Hare replied, wonderingly.
“What was the reason I taught you my trick with a gun?”
“I suppose it was to help me to defend myself.”
“Then why do you let yourself be shot down in cold blood? Why did you
hang up your gun? Why didn't you draw on Snap? Was it because of his
father, his brothers, his family?”
“Partly, but not altogether,” replied Hare, slowly. “I didn't know
before what I know now. My flesh sickened at the thought of killing a
man, even to save my own life; and to kill--your son--”
“No son of mine!” thundered Naab. “Remember that when next you meet. I
don't want your blood on my hands. Don't stand to be killed like a
sheep! If you have felt duty to me, I release you.”
Zeke finished bandaging the wound. Making a bed of blankets he lifted
Hare into it, and covered him, cautioning him to lie still. Hare had a
sensation of extreme lassitude, a deep drowsiness which permeated even
to his bones. There were intervals of oblivion, then a time when the
stars blinked in his eyes; he heard the wind, Silvermane's bell, the
murmur of voices, yet all seemed remote from him, intangible as things
in a dream.
He rode home next day, drooping in the saddle and fainting at the end of
the trail, with the strong arm of August Naab upholding him. His wound
was dressed and he was put to bed, where he lay sleeping most of the
time, brooding the rest.
In three weeks he was in the saddle again, riding out over the red strip
of desert toward the range. During his convalescence he had learned that
he had come to the sombre line of choice. Either he must deliberately
back away, and show his unfitness to survive in the desert, or he must
step across into its dark wilds. The stern question haunted him. Yet he
knew a swift decision waited on the crucial moment.
He sought lonely rides more than ever, and, like Silvermane, he was
always watching and listening. His duties carried him half way to
Seeping Springs, across the valley to the red wall, up the slope of
Coconina far into the forest of stately pines. What with Silvermane's
wonderful scent and sight, and his own constant watchfulness, there were
never range-riders or wild horses nor even deer near him without his
knowledge.
The days flew by; spring had long since given place to summer; the blaze
of sun and blast of flying sand were succeeded by the cooling breezes
from the mountain; October brought the flurries of snow and November the
dark storm-clouds.
Hare was the last of the riders to be driven off the mountain. The
brothers were waiting for him at Silver Cup, and they at once packed and
started for home.
August Naab listened to the details of the range-riding since his
absence, with silent surprise. Holderness and Snap had kept away from
Silver Cup after the supposed killing of Hare. Occasionally a group of
horsemen rode across the valley or up a trail within sight of Dave and
his followers, but there was never a meeting. Not a steer had been
driven off the range that summer and fall; and except for the menace
always hanging in the blue smoke over Seeping Springs the range-riding
had passed without unusual incident.
So for Hare the months had gone by swiftly; though when he looked back
afterward they seemed years. The winter at the oasis he filled as best
he could, with the children playing in the yard, with Silvermane under
the sunny lee of the great red wall, with any work that offered itself.
It was during the long evenings, when he could not be active, that time
oppressed him, and the memories of the past hurt him. A glimpse of the
red sunset through the cliff-gate toward the west would start the train
of thought; he both loved and hated the Painted Desert. Mescal was there
in the purple shadows. He dreamed of her in the glowing embers of the
log-fire. He saw her on Black Bolly with hair flying free to the wind.
And he could not shut out the picture of her sitting in the corner of
the room, silent, with bowed head, while the man to whom she was pledged
hung close over her. That memory had a sting. It was like a spark of
fire dropped on the wound in his breast where the desert-hawk had struck
him. It was like a light gleaming on the sombre line he was waiting to
cross.
XIV. WOLF
ON the anniversary of the night Mescal disappeared the mysterious voice
which had called to Hare so often and so strangely again pierced his
slumber, and brought him bolt upright in his bed shuddering and
listening. The dark room was as quiet as a tomb. He fell back into his
blankets trembling with emotion. Sleep did not close his eyes again that
night; he lay in a fever waiting for the dawn, and when the gray gloom
lightened he knew what he must do.
After breakfast he sought August Naab. “May I go across the river?” he
asked.
The old man looked up from his carpenter's task and fastened his glance
on Hare. “Mescal?”
“Yes.”
“I saw it long ago.” He shook his head and spread his great hands.
“There's no use for me to say what the desert is. If you ever come back
you'll bring her. Yes, you may go. It's a man's deed. God keep you!”
Hare spoke to no other person; he filled one saddle-bag with grain,
another with meat, bread, and dried fruits, strapped a five-gallon
leather water-sack back of Silvermane's saddle, and set out toward the
river. At the crossing-bar he removed Silvermane's equipments and placed
them in the boat. At that moment a long howl, as of a dog baying the
moon, startled him from his musings, and his eyes sought the river-bank,
up and down, and then the opposite side. An animal, which at first he
took to be a gray timber-wolf, was running along the sand-bar of the
landing.
“Pretty white for a wolf,” he muttered. “Might be a Navajo dog.”
The beast sat down on his haunches and, lifting a lean head, sent up a
doleful howl. Then he began trotting along the bar, every few paces
stepping to the edge of the water. Presently he spied Hare, and he began
to bark furiously.
“It's a dog all right; wants to get across,” said Hare. “Where have I
seen him?”
Suddenly he sprang to his feet, almost upsetting the boat. “He's like
Mescal's Wolf!” He looked closer, his heart beginning to thump, and then
he yelled: “Ki-yi! Wolf! Hyer! Hyer!”
The dog leaped straight up in the air, and coming down, began to dash
back and forth along the sand with piercing yelps.
“It's Wolf! Mescal must be near,” cried Hare. A veil obscured his sight,
and every vein was like a hot cord. “Wolf! Wolf! I'm coming!”
With trembling hands he tied Silvermane's bridle to the stern seat of
the boat and pushed off. In his eagerness he rowed too hard, dragging
Silvermane's nose under water, and he had to check himself. Time and
again he turned to call to the dog. At length the bow grated on the
sand, and Silvermane emerged with a splash and a snort.
“Wolf, old fellow!” cried Hare. “Where's Mescal? Wolf, where is she?” He
threw his arms around the dog. Wolf whined, licked Hare's face, and
breaking away, ran up the sandy trail, and back again. But he barked no
more; he waited to see if Hare was following.