The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel
Page 10
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