by Zane Grey
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.
"All right, Wolf--coming." Never had Hare saddled so speedily, nor
mounted so quickly. He sent Silvermane into the willow-skirted trail
close behind the dog, up on the rocky bench, and then under the bulging
wall. Wolf reached the level between the canyon and Echo Cliffs, and
then started straight west toward the Painted Desert. He trotted a few
rods and turned to see if the man was coming.
Doubt, fear, uncertainty ceased for Hare. With the first blast of dust-
scented air in his face he knew Wolf was leading him to Mescal. He knew
that the cry he had heard in his dream was hers, that the old mysterious
promise of the desert had at last begun its fulfilment. He gave one
sharp exultant answer to that call. The horizon, ever-widening, lay
before him, and the treeless plains, the sun-scorched slopes, the sandy
stretches, the massed blocks of black mesas, all seemed to welcome him;
his soul sang within him.
For Mescal was there. Far away she must be, a mere grain of sand in all
that world of drifting sands, perhaps ill, perhaps hurt, but alive,
waiting for him, calling for him, crying out with a voice that no
distance could silence. He did not see the sharp peaks as pitiless
barriers, nor the mesas and domes as black-faced death, nor the
moisture-drinking sands as life-sucking foes to plant and beast and man.
That painted wonderland had sheltered Mescal for a year. He had loved it
for its color, its change, its secrecy; he loved it now because it had
not been a grave for Mescal, but a home. Therefore he laughed at the
deceiving yellow distances in the foreground of glistening mesas, at the
deceiving purple distances of the far-off horizon. The wind blew a song
in his ears; the dry desert odors were fragrance in his nostrils; the
sand tasted sweet between his teeth, and the quivering heat-waves,
veiling the desert in transparent haze, framed beautiful pictures for
his eyes.
Wolf kept to the fore for some thirty paces, and though he had ceased to
stop, he still looked back to see if the horse and man were following.
Hare had noted the dog occasionally in the first hours of travel, but he
had given his eyes mostly to the broken line of sky and desert in the
west, to the receding contour of Echo Cliffs, to the spread and break of
the desert near at hand. Here and there life showed itself in a gaunt
coyote sneaking into the cactus, or a horned toad huddling down in the
dust, or a jewel-eyed lizard sunning himself upon a stone. It was only
when his excited fancy had cooled that Hare came to look closely at
Wolf. But for the dog's color he could not have been distinguished from
a real wolf. His head and ears and tail drooped, and he was lame in his
right front paw.
Hare halted in the shade of a stone, dismounted and called the dog to
him. Wolf returned without quickness, without eagerness, without any of
the old-time friendliness of shepherding days. His eyes were sad and
strange. Hare felt a sudden foreboding, but rejected it with passionate
force. Yet a chill remained. Lifting Wolf's paw he discovered that the
ball of the foot was worn through; whereupon he called into service a
piece of buckskin, and fashioning a rude moccasin he tied it round the
foot. Wolf licked his hand, but there was no change in the sad light of
his
eyes. He turned toward the west as if anxious to be off.
"All right, old fellow," said Hare, "only go slow. From the look of that
foot I think you've turned back on a long trail."
Again they faced the west, dog leading, man following, and addressed
themselves to a gradual ascent. When it had been surmounted Hare
realized that his ride so far had brought him only through an anteroom;
the real portal now stood open to the Painted Desert. The immensity of
the thing seemed to reach up to him with a thousand lines, ridges,
canyons, all ascending out of a purple gulf. The arms of the desert
enveloped him, a chill beneath their warmth.
As he descended into the valley, keeping close to Wolf, he marked a
straight course in line with a volcanic spur. He was surprised when the
dog, though continually threading jumbles of rock, heading canyons,
crossing deep washes, and going round obstructions, always veered back
to this bearing as true as a compass-needle to