Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 139
“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 springs 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.
THE END
The Young Lion Hunter
