The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel

by Zane Grey

make in his plans. Hare saw in mind Naab and his sons,

  and the Navajos sweeping in pursuit to save him from the rustlers.

  But the future must take care of itself, and he addressed all the

  faculties at his command to cool consideration of the present. The strip

  of sand under the Blue Star had to be crossed at night--a feat which

  even the Navajos did not have to their credit. Yet Hare had no

  shrinking; he had no doubt; he must go on. As he had been drawn to the

  Painted Desert by a voiceless call, so now he was urged forward by

  something nameless.

  In the blackness of the night it seemed as if he were riding through a

  vaulted hall swept by a current of air. The night had turned cold, the

  stars had brightened icily, the rumble of the river had died away when

  Bolly's ringing trot suddenly changed to a noiseless floundering walk.

  She had come upon the sand. Hare saw the Blue Star in the cliff, and

  once more loosed the rein on Bolly's neck. She stopped and champed her

  bit, and turned her black head to him as if to intimate that she wanted

  the guidance of a sure arm. But as it was not forthcoming she stepped

  onward into the yielding sand.

  With hands resting idly on the pommel Hare sat at ease in the saddle.

  The billowy dunes reflected the pale starlight and fell away from him to

  darken in obscurity. So long as the Blue Star remained in sight he kept

  his sense of direction; when it had disappeared he felt himself lost.

  Bolly's course seemed as crooked as the jagged outline of the cliffs.

  She climbed straight up little knolls, descended them at an angle,

  turned sharply at wind-washed gullies, made winding detours, zigzagged

  levels that shone like a polished floor; and at last (so it seemed to

  Hare) she doubled back on her trail. The black cliff receded over the

  waves of sand; the stars changed positions, travelled round in the blue

  dome, and the few that he knew finally sank below the horizon. Bolly

  never lagged; she was like the homeward-bound horse, indifferent to

  direction because sure of it, eager to finish the journey because now it

  was short. Hare was glad though not surprised when she snorted and

  cracked her iron-shod hoof on a stone at the edge of the sand. He smiled

  with tightening lips as he rode into the shadow of a rock which he

  recognized. Bolly had crossed the treacherous belt of dunes and washes

  and had struck the trail on the other side.

  The long level of wind-carved rocks under the cliffs, the ridges of the

  desert, the miles of slow ascent up to the rough divide, the gradual

  descent to the cedars--these stretches of his journey took the night

  hours and ended with the brightening gray in the east. Within a mile of

  Silver Cup Spring Hare dismounted, to tie folded pads of buckskin on

  Bolly's hoofs. When her feet were muffled, he cautiously advanced on the

  trail for the matter of a hundred rods or more; then sheered off to the

  right into the cedars. He led Bolly slowly, without rattling a stone or

  snapping a twig, and stopped every few paces to listen. There was no

  sound other than the wind in the cedars. Presently, with a gasp, he

  caught the dull gleam of a burned-out camp-fire. Then his movements

  became as guarded, as noiseless as those of a scouting Indian. The dawn

  broke over the red wall as he gained the trail beyond the spring.

  He skirted the curve of the valley and led Bolly a little way up the

  wooded slope to a dense thicket of aspens in a hollow. This thicket

  encircled a patch of grass. Hare pressed the lithe aspens aside to admit

  Bolly and left her there free. He drew his rifle from its sheath and,

  after assuring himself that the mustang could not be seen or heard from

  below, he bent his steps diagonally up the slope.

  Every foot of this ground he knew, and he climbed swiftly until he

  struck the mountain trail. Then, descending, he entered the cedars. At

  last he reached a point directly above the cliff-camp where he had spent

  so many days, and this he knew overhung the cabin built by Holderness.

  He stole down from tree to tree and slipped from thicket to thicket. The

  sun, red as blood, raised a bright crescent over the red wall; the soft

  mists of the valley began to glow and move; cattle were working in

  toward the spring. Never brushing a branch, never dislodging a stone,

  Hare descended the slope, his eyes keener, his ears sharper with every

  step. Soon the edge of the gray stone cliff below shut out the lower

  level of cedars. While resting he listened. Then he marked his course

  down the last bit of slanting ground to the cliff bench which faced the

  valley. This space was open, rough with crumbling rock and dead cedar

  brush--a difficult place to cross without sound. Deliberate in his

  choice of steps, very slow in moving, Hare went on with a stealth which

  satisfied even his intent ear. When the wide gray strip of stone drew

  slowly into the circle of his downcast gaze he sank to the ground with a

  slight trembling in all his limbs. There was a thick bush on the edge of

  the cliff; in three steps he could reach it and, unseen himself, look

  down upon the camp.

  A little cloud or smoke rose lazily and capped a slender column of blue.

  Sounds were wafted softly upward, the low voices of men in conversation,

  a merry whistle, and then the humming of a tune. Hare's mouth was dry

  and his temples throbbed as he asked himself what it was best to do. The

  answer came instantaneously as though it had lain just below the level

  of his conscious thought. "I'll watch till Holderness walks out into

  sight, jump up with a yell when he comes, give him time to see me, to

  draw his gun--then kill him!"

  Hare slipped to the bush, drew in a deep long breath that stilled his

  agitation, and peered over the cliff. The crude shingles of the cabin

  first rose into sight; then beyond he saw the corral with a number of

  shaggy mustangs and a great gray horse. Hare stared blankly. As in a

  dream he saw the proud arch of a splendid neck, the graceful wave of a

  white-crested mane.

  "Silvermane!... My God!" he gasped, suddenly. "They caught him--after

  all!"

  He fell backward upon the cliff and lay there with hands clinching his

  rifle, shudderingly conscious of a blow, trying to comprehend its

  meaning.

  "Silvermane!... they caught him--after all!" he kept repeating; then in

  a flash of agonized understanding he whispered: "Mescal... Mescal!"

  He rolled upon his face, shutting out the blue sky; his body stretched

  stiff as a bent spring released from its compress, and his nails dented

  the stock of his rifle. Then this rigidity softened to sobs that shook

  him from head to foot. He sat up, haggard and wild-eyed.

  Silvermane had been captured, probably by rustlers waiting at the

  western edge of the sand-strip. Mescal had fallen into the hands of Snap

  Naab. But Mescal was surely alive and Snap was there to be killed; his

  long career of unrestrained cruelty was in its last day--something told

  Hare that this thing must and should be. The stern deliberation of his

  intent to kill Holderness, the passion of his purpose to pay
his debt to

  August Naab, were as nothing compared to the gathering might of this new

  resolve; suddenly he felt free and strong as an untamed lion broken free

  from his captors.

  From the cover of the bush he peered again over the cliff. The cabin

  with its closed door facing him was scarcely two hundred feet down from

  his hiding-place. One of the rustlers sang as he bent over the camp-fire

  and raked the coals around the pots; others lounged on a bench waiting

  for breakfast; some rolled out of their blankets; they stretched and

  yawned, and pulling on their boots made for the spring. The last man to

  rise was Snap Naab, and he had slept with his head on the threshold of

  the door. Evidently Snap had made Mescal a prisoner in the cabin, and no

  one could go in or out without stepping upon him. The rustler-foreman of

  Holderness's company had slept with his belt containing two Colts, nor

  had he removed his boots. Hare noted these details with grim humor. Now

  the tall Holderness, face shining, gold-red beard agleam, rounded the

  cabin whistling. Hare watched the rustlers sit down to breakfast, and

  here and there caught a loud-spoken word, and marked their leisurely

  care-free manner. Snap Naab took up a pan of food and a cup of coffee,

  carried them into the cabin, and came out, shutting the door.

  After breakfast most of the rustlers set themselves to their various

  tasks. Hare watched them with the eyes of a lynx watching deer. Several

  men were arranging articles for packing, and their actions were slow to

  the point of laziness; others trooped down toward the corral. Holderness

  rolled a cigarette and stooped over the campfire to reach a burning

  stick. Snap Naab stalked to and fro before the door of the cabin. He

  alone of the rustler's band showed restlessness, and more than once he

  glanced up the trail that led over the divide toward his father's oasis.

  Holderness sent expectant glances in the other direction toward Seeping

  Springs. Once his clear voice rang out:

  "I tell you, Naab, there's no hurry. We'll ride in tomorrow."

  A thousand thoughts flitted through Hare's mind--a steady stream of

  questions and answers. Why did Snap look anxiously along the oasis

  trail? It was not that he feared his father or his brothers alone, but

  there was always the menace of the Navajos. Why was Holderness in no

  hurry to leave Silver Cup? Why did he lag at the spring when, if he

  expected riders from his ranch, he could have gone on to meet them,

  obviously saving time and putting greater distance between him and the

  men he had wronged? Was it utter fearlessness or only a deep-played

  game? Holderness and his rustlers, all except the gloomy Naab, were

  blind to the peril that lay beyond the divide. How soon would August

  Naab strike out on the White Sage trail? Would he come alone? Whether he

  came alone or at the head of his hard-riding Navajos he would arrive too

  late. Holderness's life was not worth a pinch of the ashes he flecked so

  carelessly from his cigarette. Snap Naab's gloom, his long stride, his

  nervous hand always on or near the butt of his Colt, spoke the keenness

  of his desert instinct. For him the sun had arisen red over the red

  wall. Had he harmed Mescal? Why did he keep the cabin door shut and

  guard it so closely?

  While Hare watched and thought the hours sped by. Holderness lounged

  about and Snap kept silent guard. The rustlers smoked, slept, and moved

  about; the day waned, and the shadow of the cliff crept over the cabin.

  To Hare the time had been as a moment; he was amazed to find the sun had

  gone down behind Coconina. If August Naab had left the oasis at dawn he

  must now be near the divide, unless he had been delayed by a wind-storm

  at the strip of sand. Hare longed to see the roan charger come up over

  the crest; he longed to see a file of Navajos, plumes waving, dark

  mustangs gleaming in the red light, sweep down the stony ridge toward

  the cedars. "If they come," he whispered, "I'll kill Holderness and Snap

  and any man who tries to open that cabin door."

  So he waited in tense watchfulness, his gaze alternating between the

  wavy line of the divide and the camp glade. Out in the valley it was

  still daylight, but under the cliff twilight had fallen. All day Hare

  had strained his ears to hear the talk of the rustlers, and it now

  occurred to him that if he climbed down through the split in the cliff

  to the bench where Dave and George had always hidden to watch the spring

  he would be just above the camp. This descent involved risk, but since

  it would enable him to see the cabin door when darkness set in, he

  decided to venture. The moment was propitious, for the rustlers were

  bustling around, cooking dinner, unrolling blankets, and moving to and

  fro from spring and corral. Hare crawled back a few yards and along the

  cliff until he reached the split. It was a narrow steep crack which he

  well remembered. Going down was attended with two dangers--losing his

  hold, and the possible rattling of stones. Face foremost he slipped

  downward with the gliding, sinuous movement of a snake, and reaching the

  grassy bench he lay quiet. Jesting voices and loud laughter from below

  reassured him. He had not been heard. His new position afforded every

  chance to see and hear, and also gave means of rapid, noiseless retreat

  along the bench to the cedars. Lying flat he crawled stealthily to the

  bushy fringe of the bench.

  A bright fire blazed under the cliff. Men were moving and laughing. The

  cabin door was open. Mescal stood leaning back from Snap Naab,

  struggling to release her hands.

  "Let me untie them, I say," growled Snap.

  Mescal tore loose from him and stepped back. Her hands were bound before

  her, and twisting them outward, she warded him off. Her dishevelled hair

  almost hid her dark eyes. They burned in a level glance of hate and

  defiance. She was a little lioness, quivering with fiery life, fight in

  every line of her form.

  "All right, don't eat then--starve!" said Snap.

  "I'll starve before I eat what you give me."

  The rustlers laughed. Holderness blew out a puff of smoke and smiled.

  Snap glowered upon Mescal and then upon his amiable companions. One of

  them, a ruddy-faced fellow, walked toward Mescal.

  "Cool down, Snap, cool down," he said. "We're not goin' to stand for a

  girl starvin'. She ain't eat a bite yet. Here, Miss, let me untie your

  hands--there. . . . Say! Naab, d--n you, her wrists are black an' blue!"

  "Look out! Your gun!" yelled Snap.

  With a swift movement Mescal snatched the man's Colt from its holster

  and was raising it when he grasped her arm. She winced and dropped the

  weapon.

  "You little Indian devil!" exclaimed the rustler, in a rapt admiration.

  "Sorry to hurt you, an' more'n sorry to spoil your aim. Thet wasn't kind

  to throw my own gun on me, jest after I'd played the gentleman, now, was

  it?"

  "I didn't--intend--to shoot--you," panted Mescal.

  "Naab, if this's your Mormon kind of wife--excuse me! Though I ain't

  denyin' she's the sassiest an' sweetest little cat
I ever seen!"

  "We Mormons don't talk about our women or hear any talk," returned Snap,

  a dancing fury in his pale eyes. "You're from Nebraska?"

  "Yep, jest a plain Nebraska rustler, cattle-thief, an' all round no-good

  customer, though I ain't taken to houndin' women yet."

  For answer Snap Naab's right hand slowly curved upward before him and

  stopped taut and inflexible, while his strange eyes seemed to shoot

  sparks.

  "See here, Naab, why do you want to throw a gun on me?" asked the

  rustler, coolly. "Haven't you shot enough of your friends yet? I reckon

  I've no right to interfere in your affairs. I was only protestin'

  friendly like, for the little lady. She's game, an' she's called your

  hand. An' it's not a straight hand. Thet's all, an' d--n if I care

  whether you are a Mormon or not. I'll bet a hoss Holderness will back me

  up."

  "Snap, he's right," put in Holderness, smoothly. "You needn't be so

  touchy about Mescal. She's showed what little use she's got for you. If

  you must rope her around like you do a mustang, be easy about it. Let's

  have supper. Now, Mescal, you sit here on the bench and behave yourself.

  I don't want you shooting up my camp."

  Snap turned sullenly aside while Holderness seated Mescal near the door

  and fetched her food and drink. The rustlers squatted round the camp-

  fire, and conversation ceased in the business of the meal.

  To Hare the scene had brought a storm of emotions. Joy at the sight of

  Mescal, blessed relief to see her unscathed, pride in her fighting

  spirit--these came side by side with gratitude to the kind Nebraska

  rustler, strange deepening insight into Holderness's game,

  unextinguishable white-hot hatred of Snap Naab. And binding all was the

  ever-mounting will to rescue Mescal, which was held in check by an

  inexorable judgment; he must continue to wait. And he did wait with

  blind faith in the something to be, keeping ever in mind the last

  resort--the rifle he clutched with eager hands. Meanwhile the darkness

  descended, the fire sent forth a brighter blaze, and the rustlers

  finished their