by Zane Grey
“Shore you have,” said Withers, with a grim note in his voice. “But you heard or read what’s not true. Of course the frontier isn’t wild and bad, as it was forty years ago, when I was a boy. Nor anything so tough as fifteen years ago when the Indians killed my brother. But this border is yet a long way from tame.”
He led Marian through the back of the gray stone house into the store. The center of this large room was a stone-floored square, walled off from the spacious and crowded shelves by high counters. Indians were leaning against these counters. Marian saw locks of raven black hair straggling from under dusty crumpled black sombreros. She saw the flash of silver buckles and ornaments. She heard the clink of silver money and low voices, in which the syllable predominating sounded like toa and taa. All these Indians had their backs turned to Marian and appeared to be making purchases of the white man behind the counter. Piles of Indian blankets covered the ends of the counters. Back of them on the shelves were a variety of colored dry goods and canned foods and boxes and jars. From the ceiling hung saddles, bridles, lanterns, lassos — a numberless assortment of articles salable to Indians.
“Here’s your Pahute,” said Withers, pointing from the doorway out into the open. “Not very pretty, is he?”
Marian peeped out from behind the trader to see a villainous-looking little Indian, black almost, round-faced, big-nosed, with the boldest, hardest look she had ever seen on a human being’s face. He wore a high-crowned conical- shaped sombrero, with a wide stiff brim. It was as black as his hair and ornamented with bright beads. His garb consisted of a soiled velvet or corduroy shirt, and trousers of blue jeans. His silver-dotted belt held a heavy gun. A shiny broad silver bracelet circled a sinewy wrist, from which hung a leather quirt. Altogether this Indian was not a pleasant and reassuring sight for the eyes of a city girl, new on the desert. Yet he fascinated Marian.
“Well, what do you think of him?” asked Withers, smiling.
“I’m not especially taken with him,” replied Marian, with a grimace. “I prefer to see him at a distance. But he looks — like—”
“Like the real thing. You bet he is. But to give the devil his due, this Pahute hasn’t done a mean or vicious thing since Nophaie came back. The Indians tell me Nophaie has talked good medicine to him.”
“What is this medicine?” asked Marian.
“The Indians make medicine out of flowers, roots, bark, herbs, and use it for ills the same as white people do. But medicine also means prayer, straight talk, mystic power of the medicine men of the tribe and their use of sand paintings.”
“What are they?”
“When the medicine man comes to visit a sick Indian he makes paintings on a flat rock with different colored sands. He paints his message to the Great Spirit. These paintings are beautiful and artistic. But few white people have ever seen them. And the wonderful thing is that the use of them nearly always cures the sick Indian.”
“Then Nophaie has begun to help his people?”
“He shore has.”
“I am very glad,” said Marian, softly. “I remember he always believed he could not do any good.”
“We’re glad, too. You see, Miss Warner, though we live off the Indians, we’re honestly working for them.”
“The trader at Mesa said much the same, and that traders were the only friends the Indians had. Is it true?”
“We believe so. But I’ve known some missionaries who were honest-to-God men — who benefited the Indians.”
“Don’t they all work for the welfare of the Indians?”
The trader gave her a keen, searching look, as if her query was one often put to him, and which required tact in answering.
“Unfortunately they do not,” he replied, bluntly. “Reckon in every walk of life there are men who betray their calling. Naturally we don’t expect that of missionaries. But in Morgan and Friel we find these exceptions. They are bad medicine. The harm they do, in many cases, is counteracted by the efforts of missionaries who work sincerely for the good of the Indian. As a matter of fact some of the missionaries don’t last long out here, unless they give in to Morgan’s domination.”
“Why, that seems strange!” said Marian, wonderingly. “Has this Morgan power to interfere with really good missionaries?”
“Has he?” replied Withers, with grim humor. “I reckon. He tries to get rid of missionaries he can’t rule, or, for that matter, anybody.”
“How in the world can he do that?” demanded Marian, with spirit.
“Nobody knows, really. But we who have been long on the reservation have our ideas. Morgan’s power might be politics or it might be church — or both. Shore he stands ace high with the Mission Board in the East. There’s no doubt about the Mission Board being made up of earnest churchmen who seek to help and Christianize the Indians. I met one of them — the president. He would believe any criticism of Morgan to be an attack from a jealous missionary or a religious clique of another church. The facts never get to this mission board. That must be the cause of Morgan’s power. Some day the scales will fall from their eyes and they’ll dismiss him.”
“How very different — this missionary work — from what we read and hear!” murmured Marian, dreamily thinking of Nophaie’s letter.
“I reckon it is,” said Withers. “Take, for instance, the case of young Ramsdell, the cowboy missionary. Ramsdell’s way of work ruffled Morgan. This cowboy preacher first got the Indians to like and trust him. Morgan and his ally feared Ramsdell was getting influence. He worked with the Indians digging ditches, plowing, planting, and building. Ramsdell was a good mechanic and he tried to teach things to the Indians. Then he did not thrust his religion down their throats. Hell’s fire and all such things had no place in his talks. More significant, perhaps, to the Indians, was the fact that Ramsdell never had anything to do with Indian women. He was a rough diamond, a hard-riding parson. Well, Morgan called one of his investigations, his tribunals. He and Friel and the agent Blucher constituted themselves the Mission Board out here. They brought Ramsdell to their court and accused him of being a leader in heathenism. This charge was based on the fact that he dressed in Indian costume for the entertainment of Indian children. Another charge was that he was too friendly with us traders to be a true missionary. He was dismissed. So rolls on the Christian Juggernaut! Sometimes I do not wonder at the utter incredulity and scorn of the Indians.”
Withers seemed suddenly conscious of the profound shock his statements had given Marian. Then, just as earnestly, though not so forcefully, he talked further. He explained that many of the missionaries sent out there had been misfits in other walks of life. Some of them had not been preachers. Many of them had been weak men, who found themselves far from civilization and practically in control of a defenceless race. They yielded to temptation. They were really less to blame for evil consequences than the combination of forces that had sent them out there to the bleak, wild desert. Lastly, Withers claimed that it was this system which was wrong — the system that ignorantly and arbitrarily sent inferior men to attempt to teach Christianity to Indians.
Marian sensed poignantly the subtle and complex nature of this question of the missionary work. The Paxtons had given the same impression. Again she remembered Nophaie’s letter, which she had reread only the day before, and now began to acquire her own objective impressions of what must be a tremendous issue. And suddenly she realized that she was no longer at sea in regard to her motive or intention — she had fixed and settled her determination to stay out there on the desert.
“Miss Warner, do you want me to send a message or letter to Nophaie by this Pahute?” inquired Withers. “He’ll ride out to-morrow.”
“No. I’d rather go myself,” replied Marian. “Mrs. Withers said you’d take me. Will you be so kind?”
“I shore’ll take you,” he rejoined. “I’ve got some sheep out that way, and other interests. It’s a long ride for a tenderfoot. How are you on a horse?”
“I’ve ridden some, and
this last month I went to a riding school three times a week. I’m pretty well hardened. But of course I can’t really ride. I can learn, though.”
“It’s well you broke in a little before coming West. Because these Nopah trails are rough riding, and you’ll have all you can stand. When would you like to start?”
“Just as soon as you can.”
“Day after to- morrow, then. But don’t set your heart on surprising Nophaie. It can’t be done.”
“Why? If we tell no one?”
“Things travel ahead of you in this desert. It seems the very birds carry news. Some Indian will see us on the way, ride past us, or tell another Indian. And it’ll get to Nophaie before we do.”
“What will get to Nophaie?”
“Word that trader Withers is riding west with Benow di cleash. Shore, won’t that make Nophaie think?”
“He’ll know,” said Marian, tensely.
“Shore. And he’ll ride to meet you. I’ll take you over the Pahute trail. You’ll be the first white person except myself ever to ride it. You must have nerve, girl.”
“Must I? Oh, my vaunted confidence! My foolish little vanity! Mr. Withers, I’m scared of it all — the bigness, the strangeness of this desert — of what I must do.”
“Shore you are. That’s only natural. Begin right now. Use your eyes and sense. Don’t worry. Take things as they come. Make up your mind to stand them. All will be well.”
At a call from the interior of the store Withers excused himself and left Marian to her own devices. So, not without dint of will power, Marian put hesitation and reserve away from her and stepped out among the soft-footed nosing dogs and the shaggy, wild-eyed ponies and the watchful, lounging Indians. She managed to walk among them without betraying her true sensations. The ordeal, so far as the Indians were concerned, gradually became easier, but she could not feel at ease among those pale-eyed sheep-dogs, and she did not lose her fear of being kicked by one of the ponies. The wool freighters interested her. They piled on the enormous brown sacks until the load stood fifteen feet above the wagon bed. Marian wondered if they intended to start off at this late hour. Presently the coarse odor of sheep grew a little too much for her and she strolled away, past the group of Indians toward the gate of the yard. Then from the doorway Mrs. Withers called her to supper.
She managed to walk among them without betraying her true sensations.
CHAPTER V
TWENTY-FOUR HOURS AT Kaidab were for Marian exceedingly full and prolific of new sensation.
A sunset over the deep notch between the red rampart and the black mesa to the west — trailing transparent clouds of purple and rose and white rimmed by golden fire; a strange, sad twilight, deepening into desert night with the heavens dark blue and radiant with a million stars; a walk out into the lonely melancholy silent emptiness; a wonderful hour with this woman who loved and knew the souls and lives of Indians; a sinking to sweet rest with eyelids seemingly touched by magic; a broken moment of slumber when the dead stillness awakened to wild staccato yelps and mournful cries; a cold, keen, invigorating dawn; and then a day of thrills, not the least of which was a horseback ride out across the sandy, green-dotted plain with an Indian boy — these somehow augmented the process of change in Marian’s heart, and clarified her mind, and established the strange fact of love for the desert. It seemed like the evolution of long period. Out of these hours grew realization of the unlimited possibilities of life and joy and labor. Never before had she divined the meaning of the words, “The world is so full of a number of things.”
That evening in another and more important council with Mrs. Withers, the matter of Marian’s work was discussed. They both agreed that a beginning should be made at Mesa, in whatever connection might be available at the Indian school. It was decided that in case Marian’s overtures there were futile she could come back to Kaidab and go about her work among the Indians on her own initiative. Nophaie’s possible wishes and suggestions were taken into consideration. Neither Mrs. Withers nor Marian, however, anticipated anything but approval from him. What he might have to tell Marian could only inspire her or drive her to greater efforts. As for the language, Marian decided she would be quick to learn enough of that to get along with the Indians, and proficiency would come with time.
Next morning Marian arose at five o’clock. Did the cold desert air have all to do with her exhilaration? How strange the long black horizon line with its sharp silhouettes against the pure pale golden flare of sky! Marian’s heart swelled and beat high. What sweetness life held! She was grateful for this new significance. The water had a touch of ice and made her fingers tingle. It was with real pleasure that she donned her rough warm outdoor garb — blouse of flannel, riding trousers and boots. She had coat and sweater and heavy gloves to go with them. But somehow the hat she had brought did not now seem suitable. It was too jaunty, too small. Still, she would have to wear it, for she had nothing else. Other necessities she packed in a small duffle bag.
When she got outdoors the sun had risen and appeared to be losing its brightness. A gray haze of cloud overspread the sky. The wind was cold, gusty, and whipped at Marian’s hair. Indians were riding in to the post, and already the work of the day was under way. Withers, bareheaded and coatless as usual, was directing the packing of two mules. Manifestly he did not wholly approve of the way the men were roping on the huge canvas rolls, for he jerked a loop loose and called out, derisively, “That’s no diamond hitch.” And he proceeded to do it in a style that suited him. Marian could not follow the intricate looping, but she certainly saw Withers and his man stand on opposite sides of the mule, and place a foot on him while they both leaned back and pulled with all their might. No wonder the poor mule heaved and laid back his ears and looked around as if in protest. Marian thought it was strange the animal did not burst. Presently Withers espied her. Then he halted in his task.
“Say, Johnny, will you run in the house and ask for Miss Warner,” he said, quite seriously.
Marian was nonplused and then confused. Could it be possible that Mr. Withers did not recognize her? Indeed, it was a fact that the dignity of her twenty- three years and something of her stature seemed to vanish when she put on masculine garb.
“But — Mr. Withers. I — I am Miss Warner,” she said, almost involuntarily. She did not quite trust him.
A broad smile spread over his face and a twinkle shone in his eye.
“Shore I thought you were a boy,” he said. “Was wondering where such a boy might come from. You shore look good medicine to me.”
His frank admiration was pleasing to Marian. She would have much preferred to appear before Nophaie in distinctly feminine apparel, such as she had worn when he first saw her. But it would have been out of place here, and she had a moment of happiness in the thought that perhaps Nophaie, too, would find her attractive in this riding suit.
“Reckon we’re going to have some wind to-day,” said Withers, as he scanned the eastern horizon. “Couldn’t you put off going till to- morrow?”
“Oh no, I couldn’t!” cried Marian, aghast. “Mr. Withers, you don’t really mean we oughtn’t to go?”
“Yes, I do, but if you feel that way, we’re shore going,” he replied, decidedly. “You may as well get used to blowing sand now as later. Have you got glasses?”
“Yes, I have my auto glasses.”
“That’s good. But you’ll have to find another hat.”
“Oh, I was afraid of this — the looks of it, I mean. What’s wrong with it?”
“Shore, its looks are great. But it’s no good. You want a sombrero with a wide brim. It protects your face from sun and rain. You’re going to get sunburnt, miss.”
“That won’t bother me, Mr. Withers,” replied Marian, “My skin looks delicate, but really it’s tough. I burn red — then brown.”
“Well, we shall see. If you haven’t a sombrero I’ll dig up one for you.”
Marian never experienced such an endless hour as the ensuing one be
fore Withers was ready to start. Breakfast for her seemed a superfluous thing. Yet she was hungry. All the time she was aware of Mrs. Withers’s eloquent and penetrating glances, and the subtle little smile of understanding and sympathy. This woman who loved Indians understood her, and was living with her these thrilling, calling moments of young life. Yet a haunting sadness, too, seemed to hover, like a shadow, in those magnetic eyes. Withers was gay, and given to raillery, directed at Marian’s boyish looks. But at last breakfast was over, and the interval of wait following.
“Marian, you’re in for a hard but glorious trip. No words of mine can tell you. Nophaie’s country is beyond words to describe. Remember, study of this desert will reward you.... Be careful on high trails. Good-by.”
Two Indians drove the pack-mules ahead of Marian. Withers had instructed her to mount and ride after them. He would presently follow. To her disappointment, she had been given a horse instead of one of the shaggy Indian mustangs — a short, stocky horse not at all spirited and quite ugly. But when she had gotten astride him, ready to try to adapt herself to saddle and motion, she found to her amaze that she did not seem to need to do anything. The horse started off. He moved briskly. But it was not a trotting gait. She had ridden at a trot yesterday, and assuredly soon tired of it. This gait was new to her, and she had imagined she knew something about horses. She felt as if she were riding in a rocking- chair that moved on a level, if such a thing were possible. The motion delighted her.
One of the Indians was old, judging from his gray hair and sloping shoulders. He wore a red bandana round his head; a thin cotton blanket, gaudily colored like calico, covered his shoulders, and his long legs dangled below his stirrups. The other Indian was a boy of sixteen years, perhaps, and sight of him was pleasing to Marian. His ebony hair waved in the wind; his darkly brown face was round and comely; he had eyes as black as his hair, and these, together with the smiling parted lips showing white even teeth, made of him a handsome youth.