XVIII. The Heritage of the Desert

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

　　"MESCAL'S far out in front by this time. Depend on it, Hare," went onNaab. "That trick was the cunning Indian of her. She'll ride Silvermaneinto White Sage to-morrow night. Then she'll hide from Snap. The Bishopwill take care of her. She'll be safe for the present in White Sage.Now we must bury these men. To-morrow--my son. Then--"

　　"What then?" Hare straightened up.

　　Unutterable pain darkened the flame in the Mormon's gaze. For an instanthis face worked spasmodically, only to stiffen into a stony mask. It wasthe old conflict once more, the never-ending war between flesh andspirit. And now the flesh had prevailed.

　　"The time has come!" said George Naab.

　　"Yes," replied his father, harshly.

　　A great calm settled over Hare; his blood ceased to race, his mind toriot; in August Naab's momentous word he knew the old man had foundhimself. At last he had learned the lesson of the desert--to strikefirst and hard.

　　"Zeke, hitch up a team," said August Naab. "No--wait a moment. Herecomes Piute. Let's hear what he has to say."

　　Piute appeared on the zigzag cliff-trail, driving a burro at dangerousspeed.

　　"He's sighted Silvermane and the rustlers," suggested George, as theshepherd approached.

　　Naab translated the excited Indian's mingling of Navajo and Piutelanguages to mean just what George had said. "Snap ahead of riders--Silvermane far, far ahead of Snap--running fast--damn!"

　　"Mescal's pushing him hard to make the sand-strip," said George.

　　"Piute--three fires to-night--Lookout Point!" This order meant theexecution of August Naab's hurry-signal for the Navajos, and after he hadgiven it, he waved the Indian toward the cliff, and lapsed into a silencewhich no one dared to break.

　　Naab consigned the bodies of the rustlers to the famous cemetery underthe red wall. He laid Dene in grave thirty-one. It was the grave thatthe outlaw had promised as the last resting-place of Dene's spy. Chanceand Culver he buried together. It was noteworthy that no Mormon riteswere conferred on Culver, once a Mormon in good standing, nor were anyprayers spoken over the open graves.

　　What did August Naab intend to do? That was the question in Hare's mindas he left the house. It was a silent day, warm as summer, though thesun was overcast with gray clouds; the birds were quiet in the trees;there was no bray of burro or clarion-call of peacock, even the hum ofthe river had fallen into silence. Hare wandered over the farm and downthe red lane, brooding over the issue. Naab's few words had been full ofmeaning; the cold gloom so foreign to his nature, had been even moreimpressive. His had been the revolt of the meek. The gentle, theloving, the administering, the spiritual uses of his life had failed.

　　Hare recalled what the desert had done to his own nature, how it had bredin him its impulse to fight, to resist, to survive. If he, a stranger ofa few years, could be moulded in the flaming furnace of its fiery life,what then must be the cast of August Naab, born on the desert, andsleeping five nights out of seven on the sands for sixty years?

　　The desert! Hare trembled as he grasped all its meaning. Then he slowlyresolved that meaning. There were the measureless distances to narrowthe eye and teach restraint; the untrodden trails, the shifting sands,the thorny brakes, the broken lava to pierce the flesh; the heights anddepths, unscalable and unplumbed. And over all the sun, red and burning.

　　The parched plants of the desert fought for life, growing far apart,sending enormous roots deep to pierce the sand and split the rock formoisture, arming every leaf with a barbed thorn or poisoned sap, neverthriving and ever thirsting.

　　The creatures of the desert endured the sun and lived without water, andwere at endless war. The hawk had a keener eye than his fellow of morefruitful lands, sharper beak, greater spread of wings, and claws ofdeeper curve. For him there was little to eat, a rabbit now, a rock-ratthen; nature made his swoop like lightning and it never missed its aim.The gaunt wolf never failed in his sure scent, in his silent hunt. Thelizard flicked an invisible tongue into the heart of a flower; and thebee he caught stung with a poisoned sting. The battle of life went tothe strong.

　　So the desert trained each of its wild things to survive. No eye of thedesert but burned with the flame of the sun. To kill or to escape death--that was the dominant motive. To fight barrenness and heat--that wasstern enough, but each creature must fight his fellow.

　　What then of the men who drifted into the desert and survived? They mustof necessity endure the wind and heat, the drouth and famine; they mustgrow lean and hard, keen-eyed and silent. The weak, the humble, thesacrificing must be winnowed from among them. As each man developed hetook on some aspect of the desert--Holderness had the amber clearness ofits distances in his eyes, its deceit in his soul; August Naab, themagnificence of the desert-pine in his giant form, its strength in hisheart; Snap Naab, the cast of the hawk-beak in his face, its cruelty inhis nature. But all shared alike in the common element of survival--ferocity. August Naab had subdued his to the promptings of a Christ-likespirit; yet did not his very energy, his wonderful tirelessness, his willto achieve, his power to resist, partake of that fierceness? Moreover,after many struggles, he too had been overcome by the desert's call forblood. His mystery was no longer a mystery. Always in those moments ofrevelation which he disclaimed, he had seen himself as faithful to thedesert in the end.

　　Hare's slumbers that night were broken. He dreamed of a great gray horseleaping in the sky from cloud to cloud with the lightning and the thunderunder his hoofs, the storm-winds sweeping from his silver mane. Hedreamed of Mescal's brooding eyes. They were dark gateways of the desertopen only to him, and he entered to chase the alluring stars deep intothe purple distance. He dreamed of himself waiting in serene confidencefor some unknown thing to pass. He awakened late in the morning andfound the house hushed. The day wore on in a repose unstirred by breezeand sound, in accord with the mourning of August Naab. At noon a solemnprocession wended its slow course to the shadow of the red cliff, and assolemnly returned.

　　Then a long-drawn piercing Indian whoop broke the midday hush. Itheralded the approach of the Navajos. In single-file they rode up thelane, and when the falcon-eyed Eschtah dismounted before his whitefriend, the line of his warriors still turned the corner of the red wall.Next to the chieftain rode Scarbreast, the grim war-lord of the Navajos.His followers trailed into the grove. Their sinewy bronze bodies, almostnaked, glistened wet from the river. Full a hundred strong were they, asilent, lean-limbed desert troop.

　　"The White Prophet's fires burned bright," said the chieftain. "Eschtahis here."

　　"The Navajo is a friend," replied Naab. "The white man needs counsel andhelp. He has fallen upon evil days."

　　"Eschtah sees war in the eyes of his friend."

　　"War, chief, war! Let the Navajo and his warriors rest and eat. Then weshall speak."

　　A single command from the Navajo broke the waiting files of warriors.Mustangs were turned into the fields, packs were unstrapped from theburros, blankets spread under the cottonwoods. When the afternoon wanedand the shade from the western wall crept into the oasis, August Naabcame from his cabin clad in buckskins, with a large blue Colt swinginghandle outward from his left hip. He ordered his sons to replenish thefire which had been built in the circle, and when the fierce-eyed Indiansgathered round the blaze he called to his women to bring meat and drink.

　　Hare's unnatural calmness had prevailed until he saw Naab stride out tofront the waiting Indians. Then a ripple of cold passed over him. Heleaned against a tree in the shadow and watched the gray-faced giantstalking to and fro before his Indian friends. A long while he strode inthe circle of light to pause at length before the chieftains and to breakthe impressive silence with his deep voice.

　　"Eschtah sees before him a friend stung to his heart. Men of his owncolor have long injured him, yet have lived. The Mormon loved hisfellows and forgave. Five sons he laid in their graves, yet his heartwas not hardened. His first-born went the trail of the fire-water and isan outcast from his people. Many enemies has he and one is a chief. Hehas killed the white man's friends, stolen his cattle, and his water.To-day the white man laid another son in his grave. What thinks thechief? Would he not crush the scorpion that stung him?"

　　The old Navajo answered in speech which, when translated, was asstately as the Mormon's.

　　"Eschtah respects his friend, but he has not thought him wise. The WhiteProphet sees visions of things to come, but his blood is cold. He askstoo much of the white man's God. He is a chief; he has an eye like thelightning, an arm strong as the pine, yet he has not struck. Eschtahgrieves. He does not wish to shed blood for pleasure. But Eschtah'sfriend has let too many selfish men cross his range and drink at hissprings. Only a few can live on the desert. Let him who has found thesprings and the trails keep them for his own. Let him who came too latego away to find for himself, to prove himself a warrior, or let his boneswhiten in the sand. The Navajo counsels his white friend to kill."

　　"The great Eschtah speaks wise words," said Naab. "The White Prophet isricher for them. He will lay aside the prayers to his unseeing God, andwill seek his foe."

　　"It is well."

　　"The white man's foe is strong," went on the Mormon; "he has many men,they will fight. If Eschtah sends his braves with his friend there willbe war. Many braves will fall. The White Prophet wishes to save them ifhe can. He will go forth alone to kill his foe. If the sun sets fourtimes and the white man is not here, then Eschtah will send his greatwar-chief and his warriors. They will kill whom they find at the whiteman's springs. And thereafter half of all the white man's cattle thatwere stolen shall be Eschtah's, so that he watch over the water andrange."

　　"Eschtah greets a chief," answered the Indian. "The White Prophet knowshe will kill his enemy, but he is not sure he will return. He is notsure that the little braves of his foe will fly like the winds, yet hehopes. So he holds the Navajo back to the last. Eschtah will watch thesun set four times. If his white friend returns he will rejoice. If hedoes not return the Navajo will send his warriors on the trail."

　　August Naab walked swiftly from the circle of light into the darkness;his heavy steps sounded on the porch, and in the hallway. His three sonswent toward their cabins with bowed heads and silent tongues. Eschtahfolded his blanket about him and stalked off into the gloom of the grove,followed by his warriors.

　　Hare remained in the shadow of the cottonwood where he had stoodunnoticed. He had not moved a muscle since he had heard August Naab'sdeclaration. That one word of Naab's intention, "Alone!" had arrestedhim. For it had struck into his heart and mind. It had paralyzed himwith the revelation it brought; for Hare now knew as he had never knownanything before, that he would forestall August Naab, avenge the death ofDave, and kill the rustler Holderness. Through blinding shock he passedslowly into cold acceptance of his heritage from the desert.

　　The two long years of his desert training were as an open page to Hare'sunveiled eyes. The life he owed to August Naab, the strength built up bythe old man's knowledge of the healing power of plateau and range--theselay in a long curve between the day Naab had lifted him out of the WhiteSage trail and this day of the Mormon's extremity. A long curve withHolderness's insulting blow at the beginning, his murder of a belovedfriend at the end! For Hare remembered the blow, and never would heforget Dave's last words. Yet unforgetable as these were, it was dutyrather than revenge that called him. This was August Naab's hour ofneed. Hare knew himself to be the tool of inscrutable fate; he was theone to fight the old desert-scarred Mormon's battle. Hare recalled howhumbly he had expressed his gratitude to Naab, and the apparentimpossibility of ever repaying him, and then Naab's reply: "Lad, you cannever tell how one man may repay another." Hare could pay his own debtand that of the many wanderers who had drifted across the sands to find ahome with the Mormon. These men stirred in their graves, and from outthe shadow of the cliff whispered the voice of Mescal's nameless father:"Is there no one to rise up for this old hero of the desert?"

　　Softly Hare slipped into his room. Putting on coat and belt and catchingup his rifle he stole out again stealthily, like an Indian. In thedarkness of the wagon-shed he felt for his saddle, and finding it, hegroped with eager hands for the grain-box; raising the lid he filled ameasure with grain, and emptied it into his saddle-bag. Then lifting thesaddle he carried it out of the yard, through the gate and across thelane to the corrals. The wilder mustangs in the far corral began to kickand snort, and those in the corral where Black Bolly was kept troopednoisily to the bars. Bolly whinnied and thrust her black muzzle over thefence. Hare placed a caressing hand on her while he waited listening andwatching. It was not unusual for the mustangs to get restless at anytime, and Hare was confident that this would pass without investigation.

　　Gradually the restless stampings and suspicious snortings ceased, andHare, letting down the bars, led Bolly out into the lane. It was thework of a moment to saddle her; his bridle hung where he always kept it,on the pommel, and with nimble fingers he shortened the several straps tofit Bolly's head, and slipped the bit between her teeth. Then he put upthe bars of the gate.

　　Before mounting he stood a moment thinking coolly, deliberately numberingthe several necessities he must not forget--grain for Bolly, food forhimself, his Colt and Winchester, cartridges, canteen, matches, knife.He inserted a hand into one of his saddle-bags expecting to find somestrips of meat. The bag was empty. He felt in the other one, and underthe grain he found what he sought. The canteen lay in the coil of hislasso tied to the saddle, and its heavy canvas covering was damp to histouch. With that he thrust the long Winchester into its saddle-sheath,and swung his leg over the mustang.

　　The house of the Naabs was dark and still. The dying council-fire castflickering shadows under the black cottonwoods where the Navajos slept.The faint breeze that rustled the leaves brought the low sullen roar ofthe river.

　　Hare guided Bolly into the thick dust of the lane, laid the bridleloosely on her neck for her to choose the trail, and silently rode outinto the lonely desert night.