THE PAINTED DESERT
By noon the next day Mrs. Burton and her niece arrived at Nampu’s house
near the Painted Desert to find Bettina.
The Indian showed them the way.
The night before, he had appeared at the new Sunrise Hill camp at a
little after ten o’clock, finding only Mrs. Burton and a few of the
girls there. Peggy and Vera and Ellen Deal had insisted upon joining the
searching party from the Gardener ranch led by Terry Benton, who had
gone out to look for Bettina.
Fortunately the Indian had come upon them and told them of her rescue on
his way to camp so they were following behind more slowly. It was thus
that he arrived alone.
Mrs. Burton’s welcome was very enthusiastic; indeed, she showed even
more gratitude and friendliness than Bettina. In a way she was more
relieved. Moreover, almost at once she recognized the young man as the
one whom they had met on the train.
She was walking alone up and down near the border of their mesa, and had
been doing this almost without ceasing ever since Vera and Peggy
returned bringing the news of Bettina’s loss. They did not mention what
they feared, but the same impression came readily enough to the others.
And Mrs. Burton thought of almost nothing else.
Over and over she kept repeating to herself that if an accident must
happen to one of the Camp Fire girls, it had better have been any girl
than Bettina. But not because she cared for her most.
The Arizona night was very clear, so that she saw the Indian a long way
off. For the first few moments she hoped, of course, that the oncoming
figure might be Bettina’s; but a little later the idea was impossible.
For she recognized that the figure was a man’s, and from his odd costume
that he must be an Indian.
He came striding on toward the mesa, swiftly climbed the steep path and
walked directly up to Mrs. Burton, who was waiting there alone. The
girls were in their tents—not sleeping, but talking together in low
voices. Sally and Gerry were whispering—a fashion they frequently
indulged in.
Ten minutes before, Marie had urged her mistress to lie down, but Mrs.
Burton had insisted that she would be far less nervous if allowed to
remain out of doors.
“I came with news of Miss Graham; she is safe,” the young Indian
announced as soon as he was within speaking distance, sensibly relieving
Polly’s anxiety at once.
Something—the curious contrast between his cultivated manner and voice
and his costume—made Mrs. Burton recognize him at once.
“Then our meeting on the train was a happy accident. I felt it might
be,” she returned cordially, holding out her hand.
“Sit down beside me, please, and tell me just what has happened.”
Now, that the strain was over, Mrs. Burton felt oddly weak in the knees,
as one often does after a period of anxiety.
Yet, later, when she knew that Bettina was safe and not seriously hurt,
Mrs. Burton found that her sense of romance had not so completely
disappeared that she did not enjoy continuing to sit there for a few
added moments.
The young Indian was so handsome; his personality and his appearance so
fitted into the unusual and picturesque landscape. Then there was
something in his grave courtesy which pleased the older woman.
He slept that night wrapped in a blanket on the mesa at some distance
from Mrs. Burton’s tent, next morning acting as her escort.
But it was not possible that the little party of three start off at
once. First, Mrs. Gardener had to be persuaded to come down from the
ranch house to spend the day and night with the other Camp Fire girls.
For Polly had concluded, since Nampu’s house was so near the Painted
Desert, the girls could come on the following day and join her there for
their first expedition into the desert.
On their arrival Polly had found Bettina a little pale and tired, but
otherwise wonderfully recovered from Nampu’s healing herbs. Then, after
a little talk, the three girls—Bettina, Peggy and the Indian girl—had
wandered off, while all afternoon Mrs. Burton sat with old Nampu and
Se-kyal-ets-tewa.
He did not seem to care to be with the girls.
Mrs. Burton wondered at this. Yet she did not understand Indian customs.
There was undoubtedly a deep intimacy between Nampu and the young man.
Could it be possible that the daughter, Dawapa, was the bond?
Although living at a little distance from her own people, Nampu was a
distinguished woman among them. In the Indian world there was no more
famous maker of pottery. Her daughter was being trained to the same
work. Nampu was a typical squaw—silent, a little dirty, squatting all
day in the sun, with only her wonderful old wrinkled hands moving like
an artist’s and setting her apart from the rest of her tribe.
About the daughter it was more difficult to determine. She seemed
abnormally shy—more like a frightened wild animal than a human being.
Then it was difficult to determine whether her odd appearance made her
beautiful or ugly. Doubtless her own people might think her beautiful,
because of the contrast her fairness offered.
Nevertheless the Indian boy was so unlike either Nampu or her daughter,
separated from them by what appeared like centuries in education and
feeling.
Yet, watching him today, the great actress was not so sure. She liked to
study faces and temperaments. The Indian had changed since their meeting
on the train. Then he had been far more like an American or, rather,
like the type we now regard as American, since, after all, he had the
first right to this name. But in this short time since his homecoming,
he was not the same. It may be that his Indian costume made the
difference. Yet it would be interesting to see just how much influence
modern civilization did have upon the Indian character. Was it not,
after all, just a veneering, and would the young man not return to his
own customs and his own people when the American influence was removed?
They were sitting in front of Nampu’s house while Mrs. Burton made these
reflections. She was resting in the shadow of the cliffs behind the hut
on a splendid Indian blanket of black and red. Near her Nampu was
molding a great earthenware bowl, shaped and colored like a great red
disk cut in two and hollowed on the inside. Around it the crude outline
of a snake lay coiled. Already Polly had asked to be allowed to purchase
it.
A few yards off Se-kyal-ets-tewa sat upright with his legs crossed
underneath him. He was silent unless he was spoken to, but he seemed to
keep his eyes fixed on the three girls who formed another group at some
distance off.
None of his new acquaintances at their second meeting thought of or
spoke to the Indian by the English name of John Mase—the name by which
he had introduced himself on the train.
Suddenly Mrs. Burton turned to him.
“I hope you will come to see us as often as possible at camp,” she
began, speaking with her usual impulsiveness and thinking it might be
amusing to study the different influences at work in the Indian youth.
“I would like to have you teach us of your people and some day take us
to your village perhaps. Later on we are hoping to see your great August
festivals.”
Mrs. Burton had not meant to be condescending, but there may have been
an unconscious suggestion in her tone. The Indian hesitated and frowned.
Then, seeing that the three girls were coming toward Nampu’s house, he
rose up.
“Thank you,” he answered, but without signifying whether his reply meant
agreement.
Next day Peggy Webster asked him the same question.
She and Bettina and Dawapa were standing in a small group at the
entrance of the Painted Desert, waiting for the others to join them.
They had walked from Nampu’s house—a distance of only a mile or two.
“You will not disappoint us, Se-kyal-ets-tewa,” Peggy urged,
thrusting her hands into her pockets in a boyish fashion and nodding
her head vigorously. “But if you do decide to come won’t you give us
some other name to call you by? Life isn’t very long at best and
Se-kyal-ets-tewa——”
The Indian smiled. He understood and liked Peggy, as all other boys and
men who were worth while did. She was so simple and straightforward and
so without the least trace of coquetry.
“Yes, if Mrs. Burton and the rest of you really wish it, I will come
when I can, although I have other more important work to do,” he
answered proudly. Then smiling again, “Perhaps the last two syllables of
my name will be less difficult. Tewa alone means ‘Keeper of the Trail.’”
He was looking directly at Peggy and talking to her, not appearing to
notice Bettina nor the Indian girl.
Nevertheless Bettina replied:
“I was lucky when you chanced to be the ‘Keeper of my Trail’ yesterday.”
She was smiling, also, and yet she spoke seriously. “I wish I knew how
to thank you.”
A moment afterwards the entire party was entering the Painted Desert.
It was as if they had come into a country where, long centuries ago,
Titanic artists and alchemists had poured out their paints and jewels.
The mounds of earth with plateau-like surfaces called mesas were red,
blue, green or orange and took strange, fantastic shapes.
Fallen between the mesa were petrified trees which had split open and
were filled with precious stones. Now and then a petrified tree appeared
embedded in the sandstone of the mesa showing along its side.
No one of the party realized how many miles were walked that day.
Nevertheless, after a time, Bettina naturally grew weary. Yet she did
not wish to mention her fatigue, realizing that she had simply not
entirely recovered from her experience of thirty-six hours before.
So, whenever it was possible she sat down, allowing the others to wander
on without her.
They were about to start on the homeward journey when she chanced to
speak to Tewa again, and this time they were alone.
Bettina was sitting in the sand with her chin in her hand by the side of
a giant petrified tree. She was staring at the place where it had split
open in falling, showing not only stones but precious and costly gems on
the inside.
Bettina was thinking so deeply that she did not hear the Indian coming
toward her.
He did not speak until she seemed to feel her eyes drawn away from the
things at which she was gazing, by another pair of eyes looking upon
her. Then she started a little.
“Mrs. Burton sent me to tell you that you were to ride back to Nampu’s
house in the wagon. You did not hear me coming? The Indian moves
silently because the moccasins we wear are best suited to the sands of
the desert.”
The young man, thrusting his hands inside his belt, drew out an
exquisite pair of moccasins made for a woman and of softest leather and
embroidered in bright beads.
“You will wear these and you will be less tired,” he said.
Were they a gift and, if so, what ought she to do? Bettina did not know
whether she should accept them.
But the Indian seemed to take her acceptance for granted.
“I am sorry to have startled you,” he continued, holding out his hand to
assist her in getting up.
But, for a moment after she had arisen, Bettina stood beside him, making
no effort to move on.
It was odd how little shyness she felt. It was easier to talk to this
Indian; to explain to him what she was thinking and feeling than to any
young man acquaintance of her own race.
“I wonder if you have ever read the Bible,” Bettina asked unexpectedly,
and then, seeing the Indian looked startled, she laughed.
“Oh, I am not a missionary trying to convert you. It is odd, but this
place suddenly made me think of a chapter in Revelations. I suppose
because I never could have imagined anywhere else such a profusion of
jewels.”
“I have read your Bible,” the young man returned. “But I do not believe
in it for the Indian. For us our own religion seems best. Yet I think I
can recall the verses you mean.”
“‘And the foundations of the wall of the city were garnished with all
manner of precious stones. The first foundation was jasper; the second
sapphire; the third a chalcedony; the fourth, an emerald;
“‘The fifth, sardonyx; the sixth, sardius; the seventh, chrysolite; the
eighth, beryl; the ninth a topaz; the tenth, chrysoprasus, the eleventh,
a jacinth; the twelfth, an amethyst.’”
The young man pronounced each word slowly and Bettina held her breath.
Never could she have a more curious experience than this. She would
never forget these past few minutes.
The air of the desert was like crystal—the place a marvel of strange
color. And as the Indian recited, Bettina seemed able to count each
jewel in the stones before her.
How strange life was, that she should hear these exquisite symbolic
verses repeated by a Pagan in a land which had once belonged to his
Pagan ancestors.