I. The Sign of the Sunset

by Thomas Bailey Aldrich

　　"BUT the man's almost dead."

　　The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life. He opened hiseyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing thathad overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood asombre group of men.

　　"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. "He's thefellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He's allbut dead. Dene's outlaws are after him. Don't cross Dene."

　　The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or afollower of Cromwell.

　　"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene orany other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God."

　　"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly. "You wouldcast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went downfrom Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I've sufferedenough at the hands of Dene."

　　The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving Harethat he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there thestrange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last fewdays with the stern reality of the present.

　　"Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, likeone reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land toworship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prosperedwith the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, allhostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever failto succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perilscompared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turnfrom mercy because of a cut-throat outlaw? I like not the sign of thetimes, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God."

　　"August Naab, I am a Mormon too," returned Cole, "but my hands arestained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes andyour cattle. Yes, I know. You're strong, stronger than any of us, faroff in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons, guardedby your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on you. He'llignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will stealcattle under your very eyes. Don't make them enemies."

　　"I can't pass by this helpless man," rolled out August Naab's sonorousvoice.

　　Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward."There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not tenmiles away. See them?"

　　The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to thewest. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched die waste, and followed thered mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional in itscraggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust roseabove the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.

　　"See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for myprophecy," cried Cole, fanatically. "The red sunset--the sign of thetimes--blood!"

　　A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extremewest, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds ofstriking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed inthe desert's sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the darkcloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round,floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, withinexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to hiscompanions as they stared.

　　Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; thetracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving thesky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up,to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.

　　"That may be God's will," said August Naab. "So be it. Martin Cole,take your men and go."

　　There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups,the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush offiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.

　　A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your--generous act--can't save me . . . may bring you harm. I'd rather you leftme--seeing you have women in your party."

　　"Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here--drink."He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a flaskto his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons. We've anhour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-dunewe'll have longer."

　　Hare's flagging senses rallied, and he forgot himself in wonder. Whilethe bustle went on, unhitching of wagon-teams, hobbling and feeding ofhorses, unpacking of camp-supplies, Naab appeared to be lost in deepmeditation or prayer. Not once did he glance backward over the trail onwhich peril was fast approaching. His gaze was fastened on a ridge tothe east where desert line, fringed by stunted cedars, met the pale-bluesky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length heturned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron potsin position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing theevening meal.

　　A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the sand,fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night fell;one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone ofblackness surrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry whine,the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.

　　"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful ofgrease-wood.

　　Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangymen, young, yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years.Hare could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steeleye and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, theothers young, were of comely, serious aspect.

　　"Mescal," called the Mormon.

　　A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,supple, straight as an Indian.

　　August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family bowedtheir heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food laid onthe ground.

　　"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless thisstranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, OLord--Amen."

　　Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable tocontrol a painful binding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he hadlearned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of thisaustere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in itsplace stirred something warm and living. He was glad, for if he had todie, as he believed, either from the deed of evil men, or from this laststruggle of his wasted body, he did not want to die in bitterness. Thatsimple prayer recalled the home he had long since left in Connecticut,and the time when he used to tease his sister and anger his father andhurt his mother while grace was being said at the breakfast-table. Nowhe was alone in the world, sick and dependent upon the kindness of thesestrangers. But they were really friends--it was a wonderful thought.

　　"Mescal, wait on the stranger," said August Naab, and the girl kneltbeside him, tendering meat and drink. His nerveless fingers refused tohold the cup, and she put it to his lips while he drank. Hot coffeerevived him; he ate and grew stronger, and readily began to talk when theMormon asked for his story.

　　"There isn't much to tell. My name is Hare. I am twenty-four. Myparents are dead. I came West because the doctors said I couldn't livein the East. At first I got better. But my money gave out and workbecame a necessity. I tramped from place to place, ending up ill in SaltLake City. People were kind to me there. Some one got me a job with abig cattle company, and sent me to Marysvale, southward over the bleakplains. It was cold; I was ill when I reached Lund. Before I even knewwhat my duties were for at Lund I was to begin work--men called me a spy.A fellow named Chance threatened me. An innkeeper led me out the backway, gave me bread and water, and said: 'Take this road to Bane; it'ssixteen miles. If you make it some one'll give you a lift North.' Iwalked all night, and all the next day. Then I wandered on till Idropped here where you found me."

　　"You missed the road to Bane," said Naab. "This is the trail to WhiteSage. It's a trail of sand and stone that leaves no tracks, a luckything for you. Dene wasn't in Lund while you were there--else youwouldn't be here. He hasn't seen you, and he can't be certain of yourtrail. Maybe he rode to Bane, but still we may find a way--"

　　One of his sons whistled low, causing Naab to rise slowly, to peer intothe darkness, to listen intently.

　　"Here, get up," he said, extending a hand to Hare. "Pretty shaky, eh?Can you walk? Give me a hold--there. . . . Mescal, come." The slendergirl obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. "Take his arm." Betweenthem they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circleof light.

　　"It wouldn't do to hide," continued Naab, lowering his voice to a swiftwhisper, "that might be fatal. You're in sight from the camp-fire, butindistinct. By-and-by the outlaws will get here, and if any of themprowl around close, you and Mescal must pretend to be sweethearts.Understand? They'll pass by Mormon love-making without a second look.Now, lad, courage . . . Mescal, it may save his life."

　　Naab returned to the fire, his shadow looming in gigantic proportions onthe white canopy of a covered wagon. Fitful gusts of wind fretted theblaze; it roared and crackled and sputtered, now illuminating the stillforms, then enveloping them in fantastic obscurity. Hare shivered, per-haps from the cold air, perhaps from growing dread. Westward lay thedesert, an impenetrable black void; in front, the gloomy mountain walllifted jagged peaks close to the stars; to the right rose the ridge, therocks and stunted cedars of its summit standing in weird relief.Suddenly Hare's fugitive glance descried a dark object; he watchedintently as it moved and rose from behind the summit of the ridge to makea bold black figure silhouetted against the cold clearness of sky. Hesaw it distinctly, realized it was close, and breathed hard as thewind-swept mane and tail, the lean, wild shape and single plume resolvedthemselves into the unmistakable outline of an Indian mustang and rider.

　　"Look!" he whispered to the girl. "See, a mounted Indian, there on theridge--there, he's gone--no, I see him again. But that's another. Look!there are more." He ceased in breathless suspense and stared fearfullyat a line of mounted Indians moving in single file over the ridge tobecome lost to view in the intervening blackness. A faint rattling ofgravel and the peculiar crack of unshod hoof on stone gave reality tothat shadowy train.

　　"Navajos," said Mescal.

　　"Navajos!" he echoed. "I heard of them at Lund; 'desert hawks' the mencalled them, worse than Piutes. Must we not alarm the men?--You--aren'tyou afraid?

　　"No."

　　"But they are hostile."

　　"Not to him." She pointed at the stalwart figure standing against thefirelight.

　　"Ah! I remember. The man Cole spoke of friendly Navajos. They must beclose by. What does it mean?"

　　"I'm not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting."

　　"Waiting! For what?"

　　"Perhaps for a signal."

　　"Then they were expected?"

　　"I don't know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage andLund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near thecamp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naabknows."

　　"Your father's risking much for me. He's good. I wish I could show mygratitude."

　　"I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father."

　　"A niece or granddaughter, then?"

　　"I'm no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was aNavajo, my father a Spaniard."

　　"Why!" exclaimed Hare. "When you came out of the wagon I took you for anIndian girl. But the moment you spoke--you talk so well--no one woulddream--"

　　"Mormons are well educated and teach the children they raise," she said,as he paused in embarrassment.

　　He wanted to ask if she were a Mormon by religion, but the questionseemed curious and unnecessary. His interest was aroused; he realizedsuddenly that he had found pleasure in her low voice; it was new andstrange, unlike any woman's voice he had ever heard; and he regarded herclosely. He had only time for a glance at her straight, clean-cutprofile, when she turned startled eyes on him, eyes black as the night.And they were eyes that looked through and beyond him. She held up ahand, slowly bent toward the wind, and whispered:

　　"Listen."

　　Hare heard nothing save the barking of coyotes and the breeze in thesage. He saw, however, the men rise from round the camp-fire to face thenorth, and the women climb into the wagon, and close the canvas flaps.And he prepared himself, with what fortitude he could command for theapproach of the outlaws. He waited, straining to catch a sound. Hisheart throbbed audibly, like a muffled drum, and for an endless moment hisears seemed deadened to aught else. Then a stronger puff of wind whippedin, banging the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs. Suspense ended. Harefelt the easing of a weight upon him Whatever was to be his fate, itwould be soon decided. The sound grew into a clattering roar. A blackmass hurled itself over the border of opaque circle, plunged into tilelight, and halted.

　　August Naab deliberately threw a bundle of grease-wood upon thecamp-fire. A blaze leaped up, sending abroad a red flare. "Who comes?"he called.

　　"Friends, Mormons, friends," was the answer.

　　"Get down--friends--and come to the fire."

　　Three horsemen advanced to the foreground; others, a troop of eight orten, remained in the shadow, a silent group.

　　Hare sank back against the stone. He knew the foremost of those horsementhough he had never seen him.

　　"Dene," whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.

　　Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw.Glimpses that he had caught of "bad" men returned vividly as he noted theclean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless mien.Dene's eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the sandout of them; and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely friendlymanner would have disarmed suspicion.

　　"Are you the Mormon Naab?" he queried.

　　"August Naab, I am."

　　"Dry camp, eh? Hosses tired, I reckon. Shore it's a sandy trail.Where's the rest of you fellers?"

　　"Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage to-night. They weretravelling light; I've heavy wagons."

　　"Naab, I reckon you shore wouldn't tell a lie?"

　　"I have never lied."

　　"Heerd of a young feller thet was in Lund--pale chap--lunger, we'd callhim back West?"

　　"I heard that he had been mistaken for a spy at Lund and had fled towardBane."

　　"Hadn't seen nothin' of him this side of Lund?"

　　"No."

　　"Seen any Navvies?"

　　"Yes."

　　The outlaw stared hard at him. Apparently he was about to speak of theNavajos, for his quick uplift of head at Naab's blunt affirmativesuggested the impulse. But he checked himself and slowly drew on hisgloves.

　　"Naab, I'm shore comin' to visit you some day. Never been over thetrange. Heerd you hed fine water, fine cattle. An' say, I seen thetlittle Navajo girl you have, an' I wouldn't mind seein' her again."

　　August Naab kicked the fire into brighter blaze. "Yes fine range," hepresently replied, his gaze fixed on Dene. "Fine water, fine cattle,fine browse. I've a fine graveyard, too; thirty graves, and not one awoman's. Fine place for graves, the canyon country. You don't have todig. There's one grave the Indians never named; it's three thousand feetdeep."

　　"Thet must be in hell," replied Dene, with a smile, ignoring the covertmeaning. He leisurely surveyed Naab's four sons, the wagons and horses,till his eye fell upon Hare and Mescal. With that he swung in his saddleas if to dismount.

　　"I shore want a look around."

　　"Get down, get down," returned the Mormon. The deep voice, unwelcoming,vibrant with an odd ring, would have struck a less suspicious man thanDene. The outlaw wrung his leg back over the pommel, sagged in thesaddle, and appeared to be pondering the question. Plainly he wasuncertain of his ground. But his indecision was brief.

　　"Two-Spot, you look 'em over," he ordered.

　　The third horseman dismounted and went toward the wagons.

　　Hare, watching this scene, became conscious that his fear had intensifiedwith the recognition of Two-Spot as Chance, the outlaw whom he would notsoon forget. In his excitement he moved against Mescal and felt hertrembling violently.

　　"Are you afraid?" he whispered.

　　"Yes, of Dene."

　　The outlaw rummaged in one of the wagons, pulled aside the canvas flapsof the other, laughed harshly, and then with clinking spurs trampedthrough the camp, kicking the beds, overturning a pile of saddles, andmaking disorder generally, till he spied the couple sitting on the stonein the shadow.

　　As the outlaw lurched that way, Hare, with a start of recollection, tookMescal in his arms and leaned his head against hers. He felt one of herhands lightly brush his shoulder and rest there, trembling.

　　Shuffling footsteps scraped the sand, sounded nearer and nearer, slowedand paused.

　　"Sparkin'! Dead to the world. Ham! Haw! Haw!"

　　The coarse laugh gave place to moving footsteps. The rattling clink ofstirrup and spur mingled with the restless stamp of horse. Chance hadmounted. Dene's voice drawled out: "Good-bye, Naab, I shore will see youall some day." The heavy thuds of many hoofs evened into a roar thatdiminished as it rushed away.

　　In unutterable relief Hare realized his deliverance. He tried to rise,but power of movement had gone from him.

　　He was fainting, yet his sensations were singularly acute. Mescal's handdropped from his shoulder; her cheek, that had been cold against his,grew hot; she quivered through all her slender length. Confusion claimedhis senses. Gratitude and hope flooded his soul. Something sweet andbeautiful, the touch of this desert girl, rioted in his blood; his heartswelled in exquisite agony. Then he was whirling in darkness; and heknew no more.