The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel

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The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel Page 10

by Zane Grey

So-ho! Noddle! Getup! Biscuit!" And with many a cheery word and

  slap he urged the burros into the forest, where they and his tall form

  soon disappeared among the trees.

  Piute came stooping toward camp so burdened with coyotes that he could

  scarcely be seen under the gray pile. With a fervent "damn" he tumbled

  them under a cedar, and trotted back into the forest for another load.

  Jack insisted on assuming his share of the duties about camp; and Mescal

  assigned him to the task of gathering firewood, breaking red-hot sticks

  of wood into small pieces, and raking them into piles of live coals.

  Then they ate, these two alone. Jack did not do justice to the supper;

  excitement had robbed him of appetite. He told Mescal how he had crept

  upon the coyotes, how so many had eluded him, how he had missed a gray

  wolf. He plied her with questions about the sheep, and wanted to know if

  there would be more wolves, and if she thought the "silvertip" would

  come. He was quite carried away by the events of the day.

  The sunset drew him to the rim. Dark clouds were mantling the desert

  like rolling smoke from a prairie-fire. He almost stumbled over Mescal,

  who sat with her back to a stone. Wolf lay with his head in her lap, and

  he growled.

  "There's a storm on the desert," she said. "Those smoky streaks are

  flying sand. We may have snow to-night. It's colder, and the wind is

  north. See, I've a blanket. You had better get one."

  He thanked her and went for it. Piute was eating his supper, and the

  peon had just come in. The bright campfire was agreeable, yet Hare did

  not feel cold. But he wrapped himself in a blanket and returned to

  Mescal and sat beside her. The desert lay indistinct in the foreground,

  inscrutable beyond; the canyon lost its line in gloom. The solemnity of

  the scene stilled his unrest, the strange freedom of longings unleashed

  that day. What had come over him? He shook his head; but with the

  consciousness of self returned a feeling of fatigue, the burning pain in

  his chest, the bitter-sweet smell of black sage and juniper.

  "You love this outlook?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Do you sit here often?"

  "Every evening."

  "Is it the sunset that you care for, the roar of the river, just being

  here high above it all?"

  "It's that last, perhaps; I don't know."

  "Haven't you been lonely?"

  "No."

  "You'd rather be here with the sheep than be in Lund, or Salt Lake City,

  as Esther and Judith want to be?"

  "Yes."

  Any other reply from her would not have been consistent with the

  impression she was making on him. As yet he had hardly regarded her as a

  young girl; she had been part of this beautiful desert-land. But he

  began to see in her a responsive being, influenced by his presence. If

  the situation was wonderful to him what must it be for her? Like a shy,

  illusive creature, unused to men, she was troubled by questions, fearful

  of the sound of her own voice. Yet in repose, as she watched the lights

  and shadows, she was serene, unconscious; her dark, quiet glance was

  dreamy and sad, and in it was the sombre, brooding strength of the

  desert.

  Twilight and falling dew sent them back to the camp. Piute and Peon were

  skinning coyotes by the blaze of the fire. The night wind had not yet

  risen; the sheep were quiet; there was no sound save the crackle of

  burning cedar sticks. Jack began to talk; he had to talk, so, addressing

  Piute and the dumb peon, he struck at random into speech, and words

  flowed with a rush. Piute approved, for he said "damn" whenever his

  intelligence grasped a meaning, and the peon twisted his lips and fixed

  his diamond eyes upon Hare in rapt gaze. The sound of a voice was

  welcome to the sentinels of that lonely sheep-range. Jack talked of

  cities, of ships, of people, of simple things in the life he had left,

  and he discovered that Mescal listened. Not only did she listen; she

  became absorbed; it was romance to her, fulfilment of her vague dreams.

  Nor did she seek her tent till he ceased; then with a startled "good-

  night" she was gone.

  From under the snugness of his warm blankets Jack watched out the last

  wakeful moments of that day of days. A star peeped through the fringe of

  cedar foliage. The wind sighed, and rose steadily, to sweep over him

  with breath of ice, with the fragrance of juniper and black sage and a

  tang of cedar.

  But that day was only the beginning of eventful days, of increasing

  charm, of forgetfulness of self, of time that passed unnoted. Every

  succeeding day was like its predecessor, only richer. Every day the

  hoar-frost silvered the dawn; the sheep browsed; the coyotes skulked in

  the thickets; the rifle spoke truer and truer. Every sunset Mescal's

  changing eyes mirrored the desert. Every twilight Jack sat beside her in

  the silence; every night, in the camp-fire flare, he talked to Piute and

  the peon.

  The Indians were appreciative listeners, whether they understood Jack or

  not, but his talk with them was only a presence. He wished to reveal the

  outside world to Mescal, and he saw with pleasure that every day she

  grew more interested.

  One evening he was telling of New York City, of the monster buildings

  where men worked, and of the elevated railways, for the time was the

  late seventies and they were still a novelty. Then something

  unprecedented occurred, inasmuch as Piute earnestly and vigorously

  interrupted Jack, demanding to have this last strange story made more

  clear. Jack did his best in gesture and speech, but he had to appeal to

  Mescal to translate his meaning to the Indian. This Mescal did with

  surprising fluency. The result, however, was that Piute took exception

  to the story of trains carrying people through the air. He lost his grin

  and regarded Jack with much disfavor. Evidently he was experiencing the

  bitterness of misplaced trust.

  "Heap damn lie!" he exclaimed with a growl, and stalked off into the

  gloom.

  Piute's expressive doubt discomfited Hare, but only momentarily, for

  Mescal's silvery peal of laughter told him that the incident had brought

  them closer together. He laughed with her and discovered a well of

  joyousness behind her reserve. Thereafter he talked directly to Mescal.

  The ice being broken she began to ask questions, shyly at first, yet

  more and more eagerly, until she forgot herself in the desire to learn

  of cities and people; of women especially, what they wore and how they

  lived, and all that life meant to them.

  The sweetest thing which had ever come to Hare was the teaching of this

  desert girl. How naive in her questions and how quick to grasp she was!

  The reaching out of her mind was like the unfolding of a rose. Evidently

  the Mormon restrictions had limited her opportunities to learn.

  But her thought had striven to escape its narrow confines, and now,

  liberated by sympathy and intelligence, it leaped forth.

  Lambing-time came late in May, and Mescal, Wolf, Piute and Jack knew no

  rest. Night-time was safer for the sheep t
han the day, though the

  howling of a thousand coyotes made it hideous for the shepherds. All in

  a day, seemingly, the little fleecy lambs came, as if by magic, and

  filled the forest with piping bleats. Then they were tottering after

  their mothers, gamboling at a day's growth, wilful as youth--and the

  carnage began. Boldly the coyotes darted out of thicket and bush, and

  many lambs never returned to their mothers. Gaunt shadows hovered always

  near; the great timber-wolves waited in covert for prey. Piute slept not

  at all, and the dog's jaws were flecked with blood morning and night.

  Jack hung up fifty-four coyotes the second day; the third he let them

  lie, seventy in number. Many times the rifle-barrel burned his hands.

  His aim grew unerring, so that running brutes in range dropped in their

  tracks. Many a gray coyote fell with a lamb in his teeth.

  One night when sheep and lambs were in the corral, and the shepherds

  rested round the camp-fire, the dog rose quivering, sniffed the cold

  wind, and suddenly bristled with

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