XIV. Wolf

by Zane Grey

　　ON the anniversary of the night Mescal disappeared the mysterious voicewhich had called to Hare so often and so strangely again pierced hisslumber, and brought him bolt upright in his bed shuddering andlistening. The dark room was as quiet as a tomb. He fell back into hisblankets trembling with emotion. Sleep did not close his eyes again thatnight; he lay in a fever waiting for the dawn, and when the gray gloomlightened he knew what he must do.

　　After breakfast he sought August Naab. "May I go across the river?" heasked.

　　The old man looked up from his carpenter's task and fastened his glanceon 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 backyou'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-gallonleather water-sack back of Silvermane's saddle, and set out toward theriver. At the crossing-bar he removed Silvermane's equipments and placedthem in the boat. At that moment a long howl, as of a dog baying themoon, 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 hetook to be a gray timber-wolf, was running along the sand-bar of thelanding.

　　"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 adoleful howl. Then he began trotting along the bar, every few pacesstepping to the edge of the water. Presently he spied Hare, and he beganto bark furiously.

　　"It's a dog all right; wants to get across," said Hare. "Where have Iseen him?"

　　Suddenly he sprang to his feet, almost upsetting the boat. "He's likeMescal's Wolf!" He looked closer, his heart beginning to thump, and thenhe yelled: "Ki-yi! Wolf! Hyer! Hyer!"

　　The dog leaped straight up in the air, and coming down, began to dashback 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 theboat and pushed off. In his eagerness he rowed too hard, draggingSilvermane's nose under water, and he had to check himself. Time andagain he turned to call to the dog. At length the bow grated on thesand, 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, andbreaking away, ran up the sandy trail, and back again. But he barked nomore; he waited to see if Hare was following.

　　"All right, Wolf--coming." Never had Hare saddled so speedily, normounted so quickly. He sent Silvermane into the willow-skirted trailclose behind the dog, up on the rocky bench, and then under the bulgingwall. Wolf reached the level between the canyon and Echo Cliffs, andthen started straight west toward the Painted Desert. He trotted a fewrods and turned to see if the man was coming.

　　Doubt, fear, uncertainty ceased for Hare. With the first blast ofdust-scented air in his face he knew Wolf was leading him to Mescal. Heknew that the cry he had heard in his dream was hers, that the oldmysterious promise of the desert had at last begun its fulfilment. Hegave one sharp exultant answer to that call. The horizon, ever-widening,lay before him, and the treeless plains, the sun-scorched slopes, thesandy stretches, the massed blocks of black mesas, all seemed to welcomehim; his soul sang within him.

　　For Mescal was there. Far away she must be, a mere grain of sand in allthat world of drifting sands, perhaps ill, perhaps hurt, but alive,waiting for him, calling for him, crying out with a voice that nodistance could silence. He did not see the sharp peaks as pitilessbarriers, nor the mesas and domes as black-faced death, nor themoisture-drinking sands as life-sucking foes to plant and beast and man.That painted wonderland had sheltered Mescal for a year. He had loved itfor its color, its change, its secrecy; he loved it now because it hadnot been a grave for Mescal, but a home. Therefore he laughed at thedeceiving yellow distances in the foreground of glistening mesas, at thedeceiving purple distances of the far-off horizon. The wind blew a songin his ears; the dry desert odors were fragrance in his nostrils; thesand tasted sweet between his teeth, and the quivering heat-waves,veiling the desert in transparent haze, framed beautiful pictures for hiseyes.

　　Wolf kept to the fore for some thirty paces, and though he had ceased tostop, 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 hehad given his eyes mostly to the broken line of sky and desert in thewest, to the receding contour of Echo Cliffs, to the spread and break ofthe desert near at hand. Here and there life showed itself in a gauntcoyote sneaking into the cactus, or a horned toad huddling down in thedust, or a jewel-eyed lizard sunning himself upon a stone. It was onlywhen 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 realwolf. His head and ears and tail drooped, and he was lame in his rightfront paw.

　　Hare halted in the shade of a stone, dismounted and called the dog tohim. Wolf returned without quickness, without eagerness, without any ofthe old-time friendliness of shepherding days. His eyes were sad andstrange. Hare felt a sudden foreboding, but rejected it with passionateforce. Yet a chill remained. Lifting Wolf's paw he discovered that theball of the foot was worn through; whereupon he called into service apiece of buckskin, and fashioning a rude moccasin he tied it round thefoot. Wolf licked his hand, but there was no change in the sad light ofhis 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 thatfoot I think you've turned back on a long trail."

　　Again they faced the west, dog leading, man following, and addressedthemselves to a gradual ascent. When it had been surmounted Harerealized that his ride so far had brought him only through an anteroom;the real portal now stood open to the Painted Desert. The immensity ofthe thing seemed to reach up to him with a thousand lines, ridges,canyons, all ascending out of a purple gulf. The arms of the desertenveloped him, a chill beneath their warmth.

　　As he descended into the valley, keeping close to Wolf, he marked astraight course in line with a volcanic spur. He was surprised when thedog, though continually threading jumbles of rock, heading canyons,crossing deep washes, and going round obstructions, always veered back tothis bearing as true as a compass-needle to its magnet.

　　Hare felt the air growing warmer and closer as he continued the descent.By mid-afternoon, when he had travelled perhaps thirty miles, he wasmoist from head to foot, and Silvermane's coat was wet. Looking backwardHare had a blank feeling of loss; the sweeping line of Echo Cliffs hadretreated behind the horizon. There was no familiar landmark left.

　　Sunset brought him to a standstill, as much from its sudden gloriousgathering of brilliant crimsons splashed with gold, as from its warningthat the day was done. Hare made his camp beside a stone which wouldserve as a wind-break. He laid his saddle for a pillow and his blanketfor a bed. He gave Silvermane a nose-bag full of water and then one ofgrain; he fed the dog, and afterward attended to his own needs. When histask was done the desert brightness had faded to gray; the warm air hadblown away on a cool breeze, and night approached. He scooped out alittle hollow in the sand for his hips, took a last look at Silvermanehaltered to the rock, and calling Wolf to his side stretched himself torest. He was used to lying on the ground, under the open sky, out wherethe wind blew and the sand seeped in, yet all these were different onthis night. He was in the Painted Desert; Wolf crept close to him;Mescal lay somewhere under the blue-white stars.

　　He awakened and arose before any color of dawn hinted of the day. Whilehe fed his four-footed companions the sky warmed and lightened. A tingeof rose gathered in the east. The air was cool and transparent. Hetried to cheer Wolf out of his sad-eyed forlornness, and failed.

　　Hare vaulted into the saddle. The day had its possibilities, and whilehe had sobered down from his first unthinking exuberance, there was stilla ring in his voice as he called to the dog:

　　"On, Wolf, on, old boy!"

　　Out of the east burst the sun, and the gray curtain was lifted by shaftsof pink and white and gold, flashing westward long trails of color.

　　When they started the actions of the dog showed Hare that Wolf was nottracking a back-trail, but travelling by instinct. There were drawswhich necessitated a search for a crossing, and areas of broken rockwhich had to be rounded, and steep flat mesas rising in the path, andstrips of deep sand and canyons impassable for long distances. But thedog always found a way and always came back to a line with the black spurthat Hare had marked. It still stood in sharp relief, no nearer thanbefore, receding with every step, an illusive landmark, which Hare beganto distrust.

　　Then quite suddenly it vanished in the ragged blue mass of the GhostMountains. Hare had seen them several times, though never so distinctly.The purple tips, the bold rock-ribs, the shadowed canyons, so sharp andclear in the morning light--how impossible to believe that these wereonly the deceit of the desert mirage! Yet so they were; even for theNavajos they were spirit-mountains.

　　The splintered desert-floor merged into an area of sand. Wolf slowed histrot, and Silvermane's hoofs sunk deep. Dismounting Hare labored besidehim, and felt the heat steal through his boots and burn the soles of hisfeet. Hare plodded onward, stopping once to tie another moccasin onWolf's worn paw, this time the left one; and often he pulled the stopperfrom the water-bag and cooled his parching lips and throat. The waves ofthe sand-dunes were as the waves of the ocean. He did not look backward,dreading to see what little progress he had made. Ahead were miles onmiles of graceful heaps, swelling mounds, crested ridges, all different,yet regular and rhythmical, drift on drift, dune on dune, in endlesswaves. Wisps of sand were whipped from their summits in white ribbonsand wreaths, and pale clouds of sand shrouded little hollows. Themorning breeze, rising out of the west, approached in a rippling lineslike the crest of an inflowing tide.

　　Silvermane snorted, lifted his ears and looked westward toward a yellowpall which swooped up from the desert.

　　"Sand-storm," said Hare, and calling Wolf he made for the nearest rockthat was large enough to shelter them. The whirling sand-cloudmushroomed into an enormous desert covering, engulfing the dunes,obscuring the light. The sunlight failed; the day turned to gloom. Thenan eddying fog of sand and dust enveloped Hare. His last glimpse be-fore he covered his face with a silk handkerchief was of sheets of sandstreaming past his shelter. The storm came with a low, soft, hissingroar, like the sound in a sea-shell magnified. Breathing through thehandkerchief Hare avoided inhaling the sand which beat against his face,but the finer dust particles filtered through and stifled him. At firsthe felt that he would suffocate, and he coughed and gasped; butpresently, when the thicker sand-clouds had passed, he managed to get airenough to breathe. Then he waited patiently while the steady seepingrustle swept by, and the band of his hat sagged heavier, and the load onhis shoulders had to be continually shaken off, and the weighty trapround his feet crept upward. When the light, fine touch ceased heremoved the covering from his face to see himself standing nearly to hisknees in sand, and Silvermane's back and the saddle burdened with it.The storm was moving eastward, a dull red now with the sun faintlyshowing through it like a ball of fire.

　　"Well, Wolf, old boy, how many storms like that will we have to weather?"asked Hare, in a cheery tone which he had to force. He knew thesesand-storms were but vagaries of the desert-wind. Before the hour closedhe had to seek the cover of a stone and wait for another to pass. Thenhe was caught in the open, with not a shelter in sight. He was compelledto turn his back to a third storm, the worst of all, and to bear as besthe could the heavy impact of the first blow, and the succeeding rush andflow of sand. After that his head drooped and he wearily trudged besideSilvermane, dreading the interminable distance he must cover before oncemore gaining hard ground. But he discovered that it was useless to tryto judge distance on the desert. What had appeared miles at his lastlook turned out to be only rods.

　　It was good to get into the saddle again and face clear air. Far awaythe black spur again loomed up, now surrounded by groups of mesas withsage-slopes tinged with green. That surely meant the end of this longtrail; the faint spots of green lent suggestion of a desert waterhole;there Mescal must be, hidden in some shady canyon. Hare built his hopesanew.

　　So he pressed on down a plain of bare rock dotted by huge bowlders; andout upon a level floor of scant sage and greasewood where a few livingcreatures, a desert-hawk sailing low, lizards darting into holes, and aswiftly running ground-bird, emphasized the lack of life in the waste.He entered a zone of clay-dunes of violet and heliotrope hues; and then abelt of lava and cactus. Reddish points studded the desert, and here andthere were meagre patches of white grass. Far away myriads of cactusplants showed like a troop of distorted horsemen. As he went on thegrass failed, and streams of jagged lava flowed downward. Beds ofcinders told of the fury of a volcanic fire. Soon Hare had to dismountto make moccasins for Wolf's hind feet; and to lead Silvermane carefullyover the cracked lava. For a while there were strips of ground bare oflava and harboring only an occasional bunch of cactus, but soon everyfoot free of the reddish iron bore a projecting mass of fierce spikes andthorns. The huge barrel-shaped cacti, and thickets of slender dark-greenrods with bayonet points, and broad leaves with yellow spines, drove Hareand his sore-footed fellow-travellers to the lava.

　　Hare thought there must be an end to it some time, yet it seemed asthough he were never to cross that black forbidding inferno. Blisteredby the heat, pierced by the thorns, lame from long toil on the lava, hewas sorely spent when once more he stepped out upon the bare desert. Onpitching camp he made the grievous discovery that the water-bag hadleaked or the water had evaporated, for there was only enough left forone more day. He ministered to thirsty dog and horse in silence, hismind revolving the grim fact of his situation.

　　His little fire of greasewood threw a wan circle into the surroundingblackness. Not a sound hinted of life. He longed for even the bark of acoyote. Silvermane stooped motionless with tired head. Wolf stretchedlimply on the sand. Hare rolled into his blanket and stretched out withslow aching relief.

　　He dreamed he was a boy roaming over the green hills of the old farm,wading through dewy clover-fields, and fishing in the Connecticut River.It was the long vacationtime, an endless freedom. Then he was at theswimming-hole, and playmates tied his clothes in knots, and with shoutsof glee ran up the bank leaving him there to shiver.

　　When he awakened the blazing globe of the sun had arisen over the easternhorizon, and the red of the desert swathed all the reach of valley.

　　Hare pondered whether he should use his water at once or dole it out.That ball of fire in the sky, a glazed circle, like iron at white heat,decided for him. The sun would be hot and would evaporate such water asleakage did not claim, and so he shared alike with Wolf, and gave therest to Silvermane.

　　For an hour the mocking lilac mountains hung in the air and then paled inthe intense light. The day was soundless and windless, and theheat-waves rose from the desert like smoke. For Hare the realities werethe baked clay flats, where Silvermane broke through at every step; thebeds of alkali, which sent aloft clouds of powdered dust; the deepgullies full of round bowlders; thickets of mesquite and prickly thornwhich tore at his legs; the weary detour to head the canyons; the climbto get between two bridging mesas; and always the haunting presence ofthe sad-eyed dog. His unrealities were the shimmering sheets of water inevery low place; the baseless mountains floating in the air; the greenslopes rising close at hand; beautiful buttes of dark blue riding theopen sand, like monstrous barks at sea; the changing outlines of desertshapes in pink haze and veils of purple and white lustre--all illusions,all mysterious tricks of the mirage.

　　In the heat of midday Hare yielded to its influence and reined in hishorse under a slate-bank where there was shade. His face was swollenand peeling, and his lips had begun to dry and crack and taste of alkali.Then Wolf pattered on; Silvermane kept at his heels; Hare dozed in thesaddle. His eyes burned in their sockets from the glare, and it was arelief to shut out the barren reaches. So the afternoon waned.

　　Silvermane stumbled, jolting Hare out of his stupid lethargy. Before himspread a great field of bowlders with not a slope or a ridge or a mesa oran escarpment. Not even a tip of a spur rose in the background. Herubbed his sore eyes. Was this another illusion?

　　When Silvermane started onward Hare thought of the Navajos' custom totrust horse and dog in such an emergency. They were desert-bred; beyondhuman understanding were their sight and scent. He was at the mercy nowof Wolf's instinct and Silvermane's endurance. Resignation brought him acertain calmness of soul, cold as the touch of an icy hand on feveredcheek. He remembered the desert secret in Mescal's eyes; he was about tosolve it. He remembered August Naab's words: "It's a man's deed!" If so,he had achieved the spirit of it, if not the letter. He rememberedEschtah's tribute to the wilderness of painted wastes: "There is thegrave of the Navajo, and no one knows the trail to the place of hissleep!" He remembered the something evermore about to be, the unknownalways subtly calling; now it was revealed in the stone-fettering grip ofthe desert. It had opened wide to him, bright with its face of danger,beautiful with its painted windows, inscrutable with its alluring call.Bidding him enter, it had closed behind him; now he looked upon it in itsiron order, its strange ruins racked by fire, its inevitableremorselessness.