The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel

by Zane Grey

watching the three men

  stroll up the garden path. Holderness took a cigarette from his lips as

  he neared the porch and blew out circles of white smoke. Bishop Caldwell

  tottered from the cottage rapping the porch-floor with his cane.

  "Good-morning, Bishop," greeted Holderness, blandly, baring his head.

  "To you, sir," quavered the old man, with his wavering blue eyes fixed

  on the spurred and belted rustler. Holderness stepped out in front of

  his companions, a superb man, courteous, smiling, entirely at his ease.

  "I rode in to--"

  Hare leaped from his hiding-place.

  "Holderness!"

  The rustler pivoted on whirling heels.

  "Dene's spy!" he exclaimed, aghast. Swift changes swept his mobile

  features. Fear flickered in his eyes as he faced his foe; then came

  wonder, a glint of amusement, dark anger, and the terrible instinct of

  death impending.

  "Naab's trick!" hissed Hare, with his hand held high. The suggestion in

  his words, the meaning in his look, held the three rustlers transfixed.

  The surprise was his strength.

  In Holderness's amber eyes shone his desperate calculation of chances.

  Hare's fateful glance, impossible to elude, his strung form slightly

  crouched, his cold deliberate mention of Naab's trick, and more than all

  the poise of that quivering hand, filled the rustler with a terror that

  he could not hide.

  He had been bidden to draw and he could not summon the force.

  "Naab's trick!" repeated Hare, mockingly.

  Suddenly Holderness reached for his gun.

  Hare's hand leapt like a lightning stroke. Gleam of blue--spurt of red--

  crash!

  Holderness swayed with blond head swinging backward; the amber of his

  eyes suddenly darkened; the life in them glazed; like a log he fell

  clutching the weapon he had half drawn.

  XX. THE RAGE OF THE OLD LION

  "TAKE Holderness away--quick!" ordered Hare. A thin curl of blue smoke

  floated from the muzzle of his raised weapon.

  The rustlers started out of their statue-like immobility, and lifting

  their dead leader dragged him down the garden path with his spurs

  clinking on the gravel and ploughing little furrows.

  "Bishop, go in now. They may return," said Hare. He hurried up the steps

  to place his arm round the tottering old man.

  "Was that Holderness?"

  "Yes," replied Hare.

  "The deeds of the wicked return unto them! God's will!"

  Hare led the Bishop indoors. The sitting-room was full of wailing women

  and crying children. None of the young men were present. Again Hare made

  note of their inexplicable absence. He spoke soothingly to the

  frightened family. The little boys and girls yielded readily to his

  persuasion, but the women took no heed of him.

  "Where are your sons?" asked Hare.

  "I don't know," replied the Bishop. "They should be here to stand by

  you. It's strange. I don't understand. Last night my sons were visited

  by many men, coming and going in twos and threes till late. They didn't

  sleep in their beds. I know not what to think."

  Hare remembered John Caldwell's enigmatic face.

  "Have the rustlers really come?" asked a young woman, whose eyes were

  red and cheeks tear-stained.

  "They have. Nineteen in all. I counted them," answered Hare.

  The young woman burst out weeping afresh, and the wailing of the others

  answered her. Hare left the cottage. He picked up his rifle and went

  down through the orchard to the hiding-place of the horses. Silvermane

  pranced and snorted his gladness at sight of his master. The desert king

  was fit for a grueling race. Black Bolly quietly cropped the long grass.

  Hare saddled the stallion to have him in instant readiness, and then

  returned to the front of the yard.

  He heard the sound of a gun down the road, then another, and several

  shots following in quick succession. A distant angry murmuring and

  trampling of many feet drew Hare to the gate. Riderless mustangs were

  galloping down the road; several frightened boys were fleeing across the

  square; not a man was in sight. Three more shots cracked, and the low

  murmur and trampling swelled into a hoarse uproar. Hare had heard that

  sound before; it was the tumult of mob-violence. A black dense throng of

  men appeared crowding into the main street, and crossing toward the

  square. The procession had some order; it was led and flanked by mounted

  men. But the upflinging of many arms, the craning of necks, and the

  leaping of men on the outskirts of the mass, the pressure inward and the

  hideous roar, proclaimed its real character.

  "By Heaven!" exclaimed Hare. "The Mormons have risen against the

  rustlers. I understand now. John Caldwell spent last night in secretly

  rousing his neighbors. They have surprised the rustlers. Now what?"

  Hare vaulted the fence and ran down the road. A compact mob of men, a

  hundred or more, had halted in the village under the wide-spreading

  cottonwoods. Hare suddenly grasped the terrible significance of those

  outstretched branches, and out of the thought grew another which made

  him run at bursting break-neck speed.

  "Open up! Let me in!" he yelled to the thickly thronged circle. Right

  and left he flung men. "Make way!" His piercing voice stilled the angry

  murmur. Fierce men with weapons held aloft fell back from his face.

  "Dene's spy!" they cried.

  The circle opened and closed upon him. He saw bound rustlers under armed

  guard. Four still forms were on the ground. Holderness lay outstretched,

  a dark-red blot staining his gray shirt. Flinty-faced Mormons, ruthless

  now as they had once been mild, surrounded the rustlers. John Caldwell

  stood foremost, with ashen lips breaking bitterly into speech:

  "Mormons, this is Dene's spy, the man who killed Holderness!"

  The listeners burst into the short stern shout of men proclaiming a

  leader in war.

  "What's the game?" demanded Hare.

  "A fair trial for the rustlers, then a rope," replied John Caldwell. The

  low ominous murmur swelled through the crowd again.

  "There are two men here who have befriended me. I won't see them

  hanged."

  "Pick them out!" A strange ripple of emotion made a fleeting break in

  John Caldwell's hard face.

  Hare eyed the prisoners.

  "Nebraska, step out here," said he.

  "I reckon you're mistaken," replied the rustler, his blue eyes intently

  on Hare. "I never seen you before. An' I ain't the kind of a feller to

  cheat the man you mean."

  "I saw you untie the girl's hands."

  "You did? Well, d--n me!"

  "Nebraska, if I save your life will you quit rustling cattle? You

  weren't cut out for a thief."

  "Will I? D--n me! I'll be straight an' decent. I'll take a job ridin'

  for you, stranger, an' prove it."

  "Cut him loose from the others," said Hare. He scrutinized the line of

  rustlers. Several were masked in black. "Take off those masks!"

  "No! Those men go to their graves masked." Again the strange twinge of

  pain crossed John Caldwell's face.

  "Ah, I see," exclaimed Hare. Then quickly: "I couldn't
recognize the

  other man anyhow; I don't know him. But Mescal can tell. He saved her

  and I'll save him. But how?"

  Every rustler, except the masked ones standing stern and silent,

  clamored that he was the one to be saved.

  "Hurry back home," said Caldwell in Hare's ear. "Tell them to fetch

  Mescal. Find out and hurry back. Time presses. The Mormons are wavering.

  You've got only a few minutes."

  Hare slipped out of the crowd, sped up the road, jumped the fence on the

  run, and burst in upon the Bishop and his family.

  "No danger--don't be alarmed--all's well," he panted. "The rustlers are

  captured. I want Mescal. Quick! Where is she? Fetch her, somebody."

  One of the women glided from the room. Hare caught the clicking of a

  latch, the closing of a door, hollow footfalls descending on stone, and

  dying away under the cottage. They rose again, ending in swiftly

  pattering footsteps. Like a whirlwind Mescal came through the hall,

  black hair flying, dark eyes beaming.

  "My darling!" Oblivious of the Mormons he swung her up and held her in

  his arms. "Mescal! Mescal!"

  When he raised his face from the tumbling mass of her black hair, the

  Bishop and his family had left the room.

  "Listen, Mescal. Be calm. I'm safe. The rustlers are prisoners. One of

  them released you from Holderness. Tell me which one?"

  "I don't know," replied Mescal. "I've tried to think. I didn't see his

  face; I can't remember his voice."

  "Think! Think! He'll be hanged if you don't recall something to identify

  him. He deserves a chance. Holderness's crowd are thieves, murderers.

  But two were not all bad. That showed the night you were at Silver Cup.

  I saved Nebraska--"

  "Were you at Silver Cup? Jack!"

  "Hush! don't interrupt me. We must save this man who saved you. Think!

  Mescal! Think!"

  "Oh! I can't. What--how shall I remember?"

  "Something about him. Think of his coat, his sleeve. You must remember

  something. Did you see his hands?"

  "Yes, I did--when he was loosing the cords," said Mescal, eagerly.

  "Long, strong fingers. I felt them too. He has a sharp rough wart on one

  hand, I don't know which. He wears a leather wristband."

  "That's enough!" Hare bounded out upon the garden walk and raced back to

  the crowded square. The uneasy circle stirred and opened for him to

  enter. He stumbled over a pile of lassoes which had not been there when

  he left. The stony Mormons waited; the rustlers coughed and shifted

  their feet. John Caldwell turned a gray face. Hare bent over the three

  dead rustlers lying with Holderness, and after a moment of anxious

  scrutiny he rose to confront the line of prisoners.

  "Hold out your hands."

  One by one they complied. The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow,

  completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden. Twice Hare spoke. The

  rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.

  "Let's see them," said Hare, quickly. He grasped the fellow's arm and

  received a violent push that almost knocked him over. Grappling with the

  rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance,

  and there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband.

  "Here's my man!" he said.

  "No," hoarsely mumbled the rustler. The perspiration ran down his corded

  neck; his breast heaved convulsively.

  "You fool!" cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful. "I recognized you.

  Would you rather hang than live? What's your secret?"

  He snatched off the black mask. The Bishop's eldest son stood revealed.

  "Good God!" cried Hare, recoiling from that convulsed face.

  "Brother! Oh! I feared this," groaned John Caldwell.

  The rustlers broke out into curses and harsh laughter.

  "--- --- you Mormons! See him! Paul Caldwell! Son of a Bishop! Thought

  he was shepherdin' sheep?"

  "D--n you, Hare!" shouted the guilty Mormon, in passionate fury and

  shame. "Why didn't you hang me? Why didn't you bury me unknown?"

  "Caldwell! I can't believe it," cried Hare, slowly coming to himself.

  "But you don't hang. Here, come out of the crowd. Make way, men!"

  The silent crowd of Mormons with lowered and averted eyes made passage

  for Hare and Caldwell. Then cold, stern voices in sharp questions and

  orders went on with the grim trial. Leading the bowed and stricken

  Mormon, Hare drew off to the side of the town-hall and turned his back

  upon the crowd. The constant trampling of many feet, the harsh medley of

  many voices swelled into one dreadful sound. It passed away, and a long

  hush followed. But this in turn was suddenly broken by an outcry:

  "The Navajos! The Navajos!"

  Hare thrilled at that cry and his glance turned to the eastern end of

  the village road where a column of mounted Indians, four abreast, was

  riding toward the square.

  "Naab and his Indians," shouted Hare. "Naab and his Indians! No fear!"

  His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab's

  pursuit, fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.

  But there came a cry of recognition--"August Naab!"

  Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan. The mustangs

  were spent and lashed with foam. Naab reined in his charger and the

  keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him. The old Mormon's eagle glance

  passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of

  waiting men.

  "Where is he?"

  "There!" answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.

  "Who robbed me of my vengeance? Who killed the rustler?" Naab's

  stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude. In it was a hunger

  of thwarted hate that held men mute. He bent a downward gaze at the dead

  Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality. Then he seemed to

  rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand. "I know--I saw it

  all--blind I was not to believe my own eyes! Where is he? Where is

  Hare?"

  Some one pointed Hare out. Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the

  men before him as if they had been sheep. His shaggy gray head and

  massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.

  Hare felt again a cold sense of fear. He grew weak in all his being. He

  reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and

  with one pull dragged him close. Was this his kind Mormon benefactor,

  this man with the awful eyes?

  "You killed Holderness?" roared Naab.

  "Yes," whispered Hare.

  "You heard me say I'd go alone? You forestalled me? You took upon

  yourself my work?... Speak."

  "I--did."

  "By what right?"

  "My debt--duty--your family--Dave!"

  "Boy! Boy! You've robbed me." Naab waved his arm from the gaping crowd

  to the swinging rustlers. "You've led these white-livered Mormons to do

  my work. How can I avenge my sons--seven sons?"

  His was the rage of the old desert-lion. He loosed Hare and strode in

  magnificent wrath over Holderness and raised his brawny fists.

  "Eighteen years I prayed for wicked men," he rolled out. "One by one I

  buried my sons. I gave my spring
s and my cattle. Then I yielded to the

  lust for blood. I renounced my religion. I paid my soul to everlasting

  hell for the life of my foe. But he's dead! Killed by a wild boy! I sold

  myself to the devil for nothing!"

  August Naab raved out his unnatural rage amid awed silence. His revolt

  was the flood of years undammed at the last. The ferocity of the desert

  spirit spoke silently in the hanging rustlers, in the ruthlessness of

  the vigilantes who had destroyed them, but it spoke truest in the

  sonorous roll of the old Mormon's wrath.

  "August, young Hare saved two of the rustlers," spoke up an old friend,

  hoping to divert the angry flood. "Paul Caldwell there, he was one of

  them. The other's gone."

  Naab loomed over him. "What!" he roared. His friend edged away,

  repeating his words and jerking his thumb backward toward the Bishop's

  son.

  "Judas Iscariot!" thundered Naab. "False to thyself, thy kin, and thy

  God! Thrice traitor!... Why didn't you get yourself killed? ... Why are

  you left? Ah-h! for me--a rustler for me to kill--with my own hands!--A

  rope there--a rope!"

  "I wanted them to hang me," hoarsely cried Caldwell, writhing in Naab's

  grasp.

  Hare threw all his weight and strength upon the Mormon's iron arm.

  "Naab! Naab! For God's sake, hear! He saved Mescal. This man, thief,

  traitor, false Mormon--whatever he is--he saved Mescal."

  August Naab's eyes were bloodshot. One shake of his great body flung

  Hare off. He dragged Paul Caldwell across the grass toward the

  cottonwood as easily as if he were handling an empty grain-sack.

  Hare suddenly darted after him. "August! August!--look! look!" he cried.

  He pointed a shaking finger down the square. The old Bishop came

  tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his

  hand. "August. See, the Bishop's coming. Paul's father! Do you hear?"

  Hare's appeal pierced Naab's frenzied brain. The Mormon Elder saw his

  old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the

  cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.

  Naab loosed his hold. His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing

  of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.

  "Paul, it's your father, the Bishop," he said, brokenly. "Be a man. He

  must never know." Naab spread wide his arms to the crowd. "Men, listen,"

  he said. "Of all of us Mormons I have lost most, suffered most. Then

  hear me. Bishop Caldwell must never know of his son's guilt. He would

  sink under it. Keep the secret. Paul will be a man again. I know. I see.

  For, Mormons, August Naab has the gift of revelation!"

  XXI. MESCAL

  SUMMER gleams of golden sunshine swam under the glistening red walls of

  the oasis. Shadows from white clouds, like sails on a deep-blue sea,

  darkened the broad fields of alfalfa. Circling columns of smoke were

  wafted far above the cottonwoods and floated in the still air. The

  desert-red color of Navajo blankets brightened the grove.

  Half-naked bronze Indians lolled in the shade, lounged on the cabin

  porches and stood about the sunny glade in idle groups. They wore the

  dress of peace. A single black-tipped white eagle feather waved above

  the band binding each black head. They watched the merry children tumble

  round the playground. Silvermane browsed where he listed under the shady

  trees, and many a sinewy red hand caressed his flowing mane. Black Bolly

  neighed her jealous displeasure from the corral, and the other mustangs

  trampled and kicked and whistled defiance across the bars. The peacocks

  preened their gorgeous plumage and uttered their clarion calls. The

  belligerent turkey-gobblers sidled about ruffling their feathers. The

  blackbirds and swallows sang and twittered their happiness to find old

  nests in the branches and under the eaves. Over all boomed the dull roar

  of the Colorado in flood.

  It was the morning of Mescal's wedding-day.

  August Naab, for once without a task, sat astride a peeled log of

  driftwood in the lane, and Hare stood beside him.

  "Five thousand steers, lad! Why do you refuse them? They're worth ten

  dollars a head to-day in Salt Lake City. A good start for a young man."

  "No, I'm still in your debt."

  "Then share alike with my sons in work and profit?"

  "Yes, I can accept that."

  "Good! Jack, I see happiness and prosperity for you. Do you remember

  that night on the White Sage trail? Ah! Well, the worst is over. We can

  look forward to better times. It's not likely the rustlers will ride

  into Utah again. But this desert will never be free from strife."

  "Tell me of Mescal," said Hare.

  "Ah! Yes, I'm coming to that." Naab bent his head over the log and

  chipped off little pieces with his knife. "Jack, will you come into the

  Mormon Church?"

  Long had Hare shrunk from this question which he felt must inevitably

  come, and now he met it as bravely as he could, knowing he would pain

  his friend.

  "No, August, I can't," he replied. "I feel--differently from Mormons

  about--about women. If it wasn't for that! I look upon you as a father.

  I'll do anything for you, except that. No one could pray to be a better

  man than you. Your work, your religion, your life-- Why! I've no words

  to say what I feel. Teach me what little you can of them, August, but

  don't ask me--that."

  "Well, well," sighed Naab. The gray clearness of his eagle eyes grew

  shadowed and his worn face was sad. It was the look of a strong wise man

  who seemed to hear doubt and failure knocking at the gate of his creed.

  But he loved life too well to be unhappy; he saw it too clearly not to

  know there was nothing wholly good, wholly perfect, wholly without

  error. The shade passed from his face like the cloud-shadow from the

  sunlit lane.

  "You ask about Mescal," he mused. "There's little more to tell."

  "But her father--can you tell me more of him?"

  "Little more than I've already told. He was evidently a man of some

  rank. I suspected that he ruined his life and became an adventurer. His

  health was shattered when I brought him here, but he got well after a

  year or so. He was a splendid, handsome fellow. He spoke very seldom and

  I don't remember ever seeing him smile. His favorite walk was the river

  trail. I came upon him there one day, and found him dying. He asked me

  to have a care of Mescal. And he died muttering a Spanish word, a

  woman's name, I think."

  "I'll cherish Mescal the more," said Hare.

  "Cherish her, yes. My Bible will this day give her a name. We know she

  has the blood of a great chief. Beautiful she is and good. I raised her

  for the Mormon Church, but God disposes after all, and I--"

  A shrill screeching sound split the warm stillness, the long-drawn-out

  bray of a burro.

  "Jack, look down the lane. If it isn't Noddle!"

  Under the shady line of the red wall a little gray burro came trotting

  leisurely along with one long brown ear standing straight up, the other

  hanging down over his nose.

  "By George! it's Noddle!" exclaimed Hare. "He's climbed
out of the

  canyon. Won't this please Mescal?"

  "Hey, Mother Mary," called Naab toward the cabin. "Send Mescal out.

  Here's a wedding-present."

  With laughing wonder the women-folk flocked out into the yard. Mescal

  hung back shy-eyed, roses dyeing the brown of her cheeks.

  "Mescal's wedding-present from Thunder River. Just arrived!" called Naab

  cheerily, yet deep-voiced with the happiness he knew the tidings would

  give. "A dusty, dirty, shaggy, starved, lop-eared, lazy burro--Noddle!"

  Mescal flew out into the lane, and with a strange broken cry of joy that

  was half a sob she fell upon her knees and clasped the little burro's

  neck. Noddle wearily flapped his long brown ears, wearily nodded his

  white nose; then evidently considering the incident closed, he went

  lazily to sleep.

  "Noddle! dear old Noddle!" murmured Mescal, with far-seeing, thought-

  mirroring eyes. "For you to come back to-day from our canyon! ... Oh!

  The long dark nights with the thunder of the river and the lonely

  voices!... they come back to me.... Wolf, Wolf, here's Noddle, the same

  faithful old Noddle!"

  August Naab married Mescal and Hare at noon under the shade of the

  cottonwoods. Eschtah, magnificent in robes of state, stood up with them.

  The many members of Naab's family and the grave Navajos formed an

  attentive circle around them. The ceremony was brief. At its close the

  Mormon lifted his face and arms in characteristic invocation.

  "Almighty God, we entreat Thy blessing upon this marriage. Many and

  inscrutable are Thy ways; strange are the workings of Thy will; wondrous

  the purpose with which Thou hast brought this man and this woman

  together. Watch over them in the new path they are to tread, help them

  in the trials to come; and in Thy good time, when they have reached the

  fulness of days, when they have known the joy of life and rendered their

  service, gather them to Thy bosom in that eternal home where we all pray

  to meet Thy chosen ones of good; yea, and the evil ones purified in Thy

  mercy. Amen."

  Happy congratulations of the Mormon family, a merry romp of children

  flinging flowers, marriage-dance of singing Navajos--these, with the

  feast spread under the cottonwoods, filled the warm noon-hours of the

  day.

  Then the chief Eschtah raised his lofty form, and turned his eyes upon

  the bride and groom.

  "Eschtah's hundred summers smile in the face of youth. The arm of the

  White Chief is strong; the kiss of the Flower of the Desert is sweet.

  Let Mescal and Jack rest their heads on one pillow, and sleep under the

  trees, and chant when the dawn brightens in the east. Out of his wise

  years the Navajo bids them love while they may. Daughter of my race,

  take the blessing of the Navajo."

  Jack lifted Mescal upon Black Bolly and mounted Silvermane. Piute

  grinned till he shook his earrings and started the pack burros toward

  the plateau trail. Wolf pattered on before, turning his white head,

  impatient of delay. Amid tears and waving of hands and cheers they began

  the zigzag ascent.

  When they reached the old camp on the plateau the sun was setting behind

  the Painted Desert. With hands closely interwoven they watched the color

  fade and the mustering of purple shadows.

  Twilight fell. Piute raked the red coals from the glowing centre of the

  camp-fire. Wolf crouched all his long white length, his sharp nose on

  his paws, watching Mescal. Hare watched her, too. The night shone in her

  eyes, the light of the fire, the old brooding mystic desert-spirit, and

  something more. The thump of Silvermane's hobbled hoofs was heard in the

  darkness; Bolly's bell jangled musically. The sheep were bleating. A

  lonesome coyote barked. The white stars blinked out of the blue and the

  night breeze whispered softly among the cedars.