Desert Heritage

by Zane Grey

  “Mescal, can we get across the Colorado and find a way up over Coconina?” asked Hare.

  “Yes, I’m sure we can. My peon never made a mistake about directions. There’s no trail, but Navajos have crossed the river at this season, and worked up a cañon.”

  The shadows had gathered under the cliffs, and the rosy light high up on the ramparts had chilled and dulled when Hare and Mescal sat down to their meal. Wolf lay close to the girl and begged for morsels. Hare was so divided between his joy in seeing Mescal appease her hunger, and his reproach to himself because he had let her wait that he scarcely ate enough to satisfy his own appetite. But he fed his soul with the several strange little smiles that broke the stillness of Mescal’s face. Then in the twilight they sat together content to be silent, listening to the low thunder of the river. Long after Mescal had retired into her hogan Hare lay awake before her den with his head in his saddle and listened to the low roll, the dull burr, the dreamy hum of the tumbling waters. The place was like the oasis, only infinitely more hidden under the cliffs. A few stars twinkled out of the dark blue, and one hung, beacon-like, on the crest of a noble crag. There were times when he imagined the valley was as silent as the desert night, and other times when he imagined he heard the thundering roll of avalanches and the tramp of armies, the stampede of sheep. Then the voices of Mescal’s solitude spoke to him—glorious laughter and low sad wails of woe, sweet songs and whispers and murmurs. His last waking thoughts were of the haunting sound of Thunder River, and that he had come to bear Mescal away from its loneliness.

  He bestirred himself at the first pale glimpse of day, and, when the gray mists had lifted to wreathe the crags, it was light enough to begin the journey. Mescal shed tears at the grave of the faithful peon. “He loved this cañon,” she said softly. Hare lifted her upon Silvermane. He walked beside the horse and Wolf trotted on before. They traveled a while under the flowering cottonwoods on a trail bordered with green tufts of grass and great star-shaped lilies. The river was still hidden, but it filled the grove with its soft thunder. Gradually the trees thinned out, hard stony ground encroached upon the sand, boulders appeared in the way, and presently, when Silvermane stepped out of the shade of the cottonwoods, Hare saw the lower end of the valley with its ragged vent where they were to go down.

  “Look back,” said Mescal.

  Hare saw the river bursting from the base of the great wall in two white streams that soon united below, and from there leaped in a continuous cascade, white as snow, down though the green grove. Step by step the stream plunged through the deep gorge, a broken strip of foam, and at the lower end of the valley it took its final leap into a blue abyss.

  “It runs underground to the Colorado,” explained Mescal.

  “I want to come here again someday.”

  “You must bring me. Good bye, Thunder River.”

  The fragrant flower-scented breeze and the rumbling of the river persisted long after the valley lay behind and above, but these failed at length in the close confined air of the huge walls. The light grew thick, the stones cracked like deep bell strokes; the voices of man and girl had a hollow sound and echo. Silvermane clicked down the easy trail at a gait that urged Hare now and then to a little trot. Soon the gully opened out upon a plateau through the center of which, in a black split, wound the red Colorado, sullen-voiced, booming, never silent or restful. Here were distances by which Hare could begin to comprehend the immensity of the cañon, and he felt lost among the great terraces leading up to mesas that dwarfed the Echo Cliffs. All was bare rock of many hues burning under the sun.

  “Jack, this is mescal,” said the girl, pointing to some towering plants.

  All over the sunny slopes cacti lifted lofty, slender shafts, unfolding in spiral leaves as they shot upward and bursting at the top into plumes of yellow flowers. Some were bare and dead, bleached spear points. The blossoming stalks waved in the wind, and huge, black bees circled around them.

  “Mescal, I’ve always wanted to see the Flower of the Desert from which you’re named . . . and it’s beautiful.”

  Hare broke a dead stalk of the cactus and was put to instant flight by a stream of black bees pouring with angry buzz from the hollow center. Two big fellows were so persistent that he had to beat them off with his hat.

  “You shouldn’t despoil their homes,” said Mescal, with a little peal of laughter.

  “I’ll break another stalk and get stung, if you’ll laugh again,” replied Hare.

  They traversed the remaining slope of the plateau and, entering the head of a ravine, descended a steep cleft of black flinty rock, so hard that Silvermane’s iron hoofs not so much as scratched it, and, reaching a level, they passed out to smooth, rounded sand and the river.

  “It’s a little high,” said Hare dubiously. “Mescal, I don’t like the looks of those rapids.”

  Only a few hundred rods of the river could be seen. In front of Hare the current was swift but not broken. Above, where the marble cañon turned, the river sheered out with a majestic roll and falling in a wide smooth curve suddenly broke into turbulent action with it fiercest energy in a wedge-shaped formation, the apex of leaping reddish waves downstream. Below Hare was a rapid of less magnitude, with the broken water mostly turning toward the near side of the river; still there were twisting yellowish swirls and curled vicious waves and sullen bellow enough to make his flesh creep.

  “I guess we’d better risk it,” said Hare, grimly recalling the hot rock, the sand, and lava and cactus of the desert.

  “It’s safe, if Silvermane is a good swimmer,” replied Mescal. “We can take the river above and cut across so the current will help.”

  “Silvermane loves the water. I think he used to swim the Sevier River up in Utah. He’ll make this crossing easily. But he can’t carry us both, and it’s impossible to make two trips. I’ll have to swim.”

  Without wasting more words and time in the consideration of an undertaking that would only grow more formidable with every look and thought, Hare led Silvermane up the sandbar to its limit. He removed his coat and strapped it behind the saddle; his belt and revolver and boots he hung over the pommel.

  “How about Wolf ? I’d forgotten him.”

  “Never fear for him. He’ll stick close to me.”

  “Now, Mescal, there’s the point we want to make, that bar . . . see it?”

  “Surely we can land above that.”

  “I’ll be satisfied if we even get there. You guide him for it. And, Mescal, here’s my rifle. Try to keep it from getting wet. Balance it on the pommel . . . so. Come, Silver . . . come, Wolf.”

  “Keep upstream!” called Mescal as Hare plunged in. “Don’t drift below us.”

  In two steps Silvermane went in to his saddle, and in two more he rolled with a splash and a snort, sinking Mescal to her hips. Nose level with the water, mane and tail floating, he swam powerfully with the current.

  For Hare the water was just cold enough to be delightful after the long hot descent, but it had the most singular quality of any water in which he had ever swum. Keeping upstream of the horse and even with Mescal, he swam with long regular strokes for perhaps one quarter of the distance, then, when they reached the swirling gurgling eddies, he found that he was quickly tiring. The water was thick and heavy; it compressed his lungs and dragged at his feet. He whirled around and around in the eddies and saw Silvermane doing the same. Only by violent force, by literally pushing himself, could he breast his way out of these whirlpools. When a wave slapped his face, he tasted sand, and then he knew what was the singular quality of this river. Sand! Sand as on the desert. Even in the depths of the cañon he could not escape it. As the current grew rougher, he began to feel that he could scarcely spread his arms in the wide long stroke. It was as if they were weighted down. Changing the stroke, he discovered that he could not keep up with Silvermane, and he changed back again. Gradually his feet sank lower and lower, the water pressed tighter around him, his arms seemed to grow useless,
strengthless. It was when he realized he could not keep up much longer that he remembered August Naab saying that the Navajos did not attempt to swim the river when it was in flood and full of sand. Whereupon he ceased to struggle, and, drifting with the current, soon was close to Silvermane, and grasped a saddle strap.

  “Not there!” cried Mescal. “He might strike you. Hang to his tail!”

  Hare dropped behind and, catching Silvermane’s tail, held on firmly. How easily the stallion towed him! The waves dashed over his rump and lapped at Mescal’s waist, and the current grew stronger, sweeping Silvermane down out of line with the black wall that had frowned closer and closer. Mescal lifted the long rifle and, resting the stock on the saddle, held it upright. The roar of the rapids that had bellowed in Hare’s ears seemed to retreat, to lose its volume, and presently it died in the splashing and slapping of broken water closer at hand. Mescal turned to him with eyes glancing darkly bright, and, curving her hand about her lips, she shouted: “Can’t make the bar! We’ve got to go through this side of the rapids. Hang on!”

  In the swelling din of watery sounds Hare felt the resistless pull of the current, and, as he held on with both hands, hard pressed to keep his grasp, Silvermane dipped over a low fall in the river. Then Hare was riding the rushing water of an incline. It ended below in a back-lashing, red-crested wave, and beyond was a chaos of angry, curling breakers. Hare had one glimpse of Mescal crouching low, shoulders narrowed and head bent; then, with one white flash of the stallion’s mane against her flying, black hair, she went out of sight in upspurting waves and spray. Hare was thrown forward into the backlash of the wave. The shock blinded him, stunned him, almost tore his arms from his body, but his hands were so twisted in Silvermane’s tail that even this could not loosen them. The current threw him from wave to wave with crash and buffet and pound. He was dragged through a caldron, blind from stinging blows, deaf from the tremendous roar. Then the fierce contention of waves lessened, the threshing criss-cross of currents straightened, and he could breathe once more. Silvermane dragged him steadily; the roar grew to be a sound, instead of ponderous weight in his ears; the current ceased to sway his legs upward, and, finally, his feet touched the ground. He could scarcely see, so full were his eyes of the sandy water, but he made out Mescal rising from the river on Silvermane, as with loud snorts he climbed to a bar. Hare staggered up and fell on the sand.

  “Jack, are you all right?” inquired Mescal.

  “All right, only pounded out of breath, and my eyes are full of sand. How about you?”

  “I don’t think I ever was any wetter,” replied Mescal, laughing. “It was hard to stick on, holding the rifle. That first wave almost unseated me. I was afraid we might strike the rocks, but the water was deep. Silvermane is grand, Jack. Wolf swam out above the rapids and was waiting for us when we landed.”

  Hare wiped the sand out of his eyes and got to his feet, finding himself little the worse for the incident. Mescal was wringing the water from the long straight braids of her hair. She was smiling, and a tint of color showed in her cheeks. The wet buckskin blouse and short skirt clung tightly to her slender form. She made so pretty a picture and appeared so little affected by the peril they had just passed through that Hare, yielding to a tender rush of pride and possession, kissed the pink cheeks till they flamed.

  “All wet,” he said, “you and I, clothes, food, guns . . . everything.”

  “It’s hot and we’ll soon dry,” returned Mescal. “Here’s the cañon and creek we must follow up to Coconina. My peon mapped them in the sand for me one day. It’ll probably be a long climb, but not steep.”

  Hare poured the water out of his boots, pulled them on, and, helping Mescal to mount Silvermane, he took the bridle over his arm and led the way into a narrow, black-mouthed cañon, through which flowed a stream of clear water. Wolf splashed and pattered along beside him. Beyond the black marble rock this creek cañon opened out to great breadth and wonderful walls. Hare had eyes only for the gravelly bars and shallow rocky levels of the creek, and, intent on finding the easy going for his horse, he strode on and on thoughtless of time. Nor did he talk to Mescal, for the work was hard, and he needed his breath. Splashing the water, clicking the stones, Silvermane ever kept his nose at Hare’s elbow. They climbed little ridges, making short cuts from point to point, they threaded miles of narrow winding creek floor, and passed under ferny cliffs and over grassy banks and through thickets of yellow willow. As they wound along the course of the creek, always up and up, the great walls imperceptibly lowered their rims. The warm sun soared to the zenith. Jumbles of boulders, stretches of white gravel, ridges of sage, blocks of granite, thickets of manzanita, long yellow slopes, crumbling crags, clumps of cedar, and lanes of piñon—all were passed in the persistent plodding climb. The cañon grew restricted toward its source; the creek lost its volume; patches of snow gleamed in sheltered places. At last the yellow-streaked walls edged out upon, a grassy hollow and the great dark magnificent pines of Coconina shadowed the snow.

  “We’re up,” panted Hare. “What a climb! Five hours! One more day . . . then home!”

  Silvermane’s ears shot up and Wolf barked. Two gray deer loped out of a thicket and turned inquisitively. Reaching for his rifle, Hare threw back the lever, but the action clogged, it rasped with the sound of crunching sand, and the cartridge could not be pressed into the chamber or ejected. He fumbled about the breach of the gun and his brow clouded.

  “Sand! Out of commission!” he exclaimed. “Mescal, I don’t like that.”

  “Use your Colt,” suggested Mescal.

  The distance was too great for the smaller firearm. Hare missed, and the deer bounded away into the forest.

  Hare built a fire under a sheltering pine where no snow covered the soft mat of needles, and, while Mescal dried the blankets and roasted the last portion of meat, he made a windbreak of spruce boughs. When they had eaten, not forgetting to give Wolf a portion, Hare fed Silvermane the last few handfuls of grain, and tied him with a long halter on the grassy bank. The daylight failed and darkness came on apace. The old familiar roar of the wind in the pines was perturbing; it might have meant only the lull and crash of the breaking night gusts, and it might have meant the north wind, storm, and snow. It whooped down the hollow, scattering the few scrub-oak leaves and whirled the red embers of the fire away into the dark to sputter in the snow, and blew the burning logs into a white glow. Mescal slept in the shelter of the spruce boughs with Wolf snug and warm beside her, and Hare stretched his tired limbs in the heat of the blaze.

  When he awakened, the fire was low and he was numb with cold. He took care to put on logs enough to last until morning, then he lay down once more, but did not sleep. The dawn came with a gray shade in the forest; it was a cloud, and it rolled over him, soft, tangible, moist, and cool, and passed away under the pines. With its vanishing the dawn lightened. “Mescal, if we’re on the spur of Coconina, it’s only ten miles or so to Silver Cup,” said Hare as he saddled Silvermane. “Mount now and we’ll go up out of the hollow and get our bearings.”

  While ascending the last step to the rim, Hare revolved in his mind the probabilities of marking a straight course to Silver Cup.

  “Oh! Jack!” exclaimed Mescal suddenly. “Vermilion Cliffs and home!”

  “I’ve traveled in a circle!” replied Hare.

  Mescal was enraptured at the scene as her gaze signified. Vermilion Cliffs shone red as a rose. The split in the wall marking the oasis defined its outlines sharply against the sky. Miles of the Colorado River lay in sight. Hare knew he stood on the highest point of Coconina overhanging the Grand Cañon and the Painted Desert, thousands of feet below. He sighted the wondrous abyss sleeping in blue mist at his feet, while he gazed across to the desert awakening in the first red rays of the rising sun. Sand—lava—plain—mesa were mere colored dots and streaks in space, softening aspects of a marginless waste, purple details that led the eye to where a dim horizon merged in the heavens. The same
alluring desert yet how different! He had felt its dry teeth in his life; he had crossed it; he knew its deceiving distance; still was it a mystery.

  He followed the Little Colorado winding down through the Painted Desert to join the great river, and his survey brought the chasm directly under his eye. He echoed Mescal’s exclamation and, reaching for her hand, held it while he tried to comprehend the aweinspiring spectacle. He stood on the edge of a ruined world of stone. Where was the sea that had not been filled by the silt washed from this gap! The huge domes, the escarpments, the pinnacles, and turrets were draped in gray. Deep dark blue marked the clefts between the mesas, and the tips of the crags caught the rose of the sun. There were no sudden changes, no sudden breaks—all the millions of slopes and terraces merged together, enfolded in soft haze, soft mist, soft cloud in one soft effect of entrancing beauty.

  “Mescal, your Thunder River Cañon is only one little crack in the rocks lost in the immensity of this stupendous chasm,” said Hare.

  “It’s lost, surely. I can’t even see the tip of the peak that stood so high over the valley.”

  Once more turning to the left, Hare ran his eye over the Vermilion Cliffs, and the strip of red sand shining under them, and so, calculating his bearings, he headed due north for Silver Cup. What with the snow and the soggy ground the first mile was laborsome going for Hare, and Silvermane often sank deeply. Once off the level spur of the mountain they made better time, for the snow thinned out on the slope and gradually gave way to the long, brown dry aisles of the forest. Hare mounted in front of Mescal, and put the stallion to an easy trot, and after two hours of riding they struck a bridle trail that Hare recognized as one leading down to the spring. In another hour they reached the steep slope of Coconina, and saw the familiar red wall across the valley, and caught glimpses of gray sage patches down through the pines.

  “I smell smoke,” said Hare.

  “The boys must be at the spring,” rejoined Mescal.