Collected Works of Zane Grey, page 770
“Well!” ejaculated Marian. “So that is how these men acquire their lands!”
Marian had planned to go next to Kaidab, but influenced by the incentive of Wolterson’s suggestion, and a dread of seeing just yet the beautiful sage uplands beloved by Nophaie, she decided first to look over the field at Copenwashie. The Paxtons at Mesa gave her a warm welcome, and between them, for the sake of a subterfuge that might be wise, they arranged a basket and blanket buying job for her.
Copenwashie lay down on the edge of the mesa two miles or more from the government post. At any time it was a barren, desolate outlook, and in summer under the leaden haze of heat it was surely mercilessly inhospitable to a white person.
The Nokis were agricultural in their pursuits, not nomads like the Nopahs. The two tribes had long been inimical to each other. One aged Noki woman, who was so old she did not know her age, had told Paxton she could remember when the Nopahs could ride down on the village and throw Nokis over the cliffs. Their houses were flat-roofed, built of stone and adobe, cool in summer and warm in winter, a very great improvement on the hogan of the wilder Nopah. In many cases rude corrals adjoined the houses. The several lanes of the village were, upon Marian’s first visit, colorful and active with burros, dogs, chickens, cows, and Indian children. A keen tang of cedar smoke filled the air. It brought to Marian’s mind the camp fire of the upland country. Thin curling columns of blue smoke rose from invisible holes or chimneys.
Marian went from door to door of these little low houses and asked for baskets. She saw stoves, beds, sewing- machines common to white households. The rooms she got a peep into were whitewashed and clean. The Nokis were short in stature, broad-faced, resembling a Japanese more than a Nopah, and the women all appeared to be heavy. They spoke a little English, but they were reserved and shy. Marian was hard to please in style of baskets, but she paid the price asked without haggling. Thus she carefully felt her way along the line of procedure she had adopted. When she left the village and ascended the slope to the level of Mesa she looked back.
The place seemed a jumble of little rock and mud huts perched on the very edge of a precipice. Below lay a wide green valley with Indian laborers at work and threads of water running to and fro. Across the valley rose a red-and- yellow bluff, rimming out on the ghastly desert. To the right of where Marian stood loomed an imposing structure of stone, built by masons, two stories high and with a tower. This was the home of Friel. Somehow Marian resented its presence there. She was looking at it with an Indian’s eye. She thought of the cowboy missionary, Ramsdell, who had slept and lived like the riders of the open. Knowing what she knew, Marian had difficulty in restraining more than prejudice.
Paxton had driven her down to Copenwashie, and said he did not consider it safe for her to walk. Opportunity to ride was infrequent, so Marian adjusted herself to a slow progress of passing the time and winning the confidence of the Nokis. But there were other demands upon her time — study, reading, writing letters, keeping in touch with all pertaining to the war. The heat of midday was, after all, not unendurable, and she got used to it, though she endeavored to stay indoors during those hours. She hired the Indian mail carrier, who remembered her, to carry her letters to Flagerstown and to do her errands. Three or four times a week she visited the Noki village. On each trip she bought baskets, and she always left candy and dolls and musical toys with the children. When a Noki woman asked her if she was a missionary Marian thought she had gained a point in her emphatic negative.
She anticipated embarrassing situations and prepared for them. Jay Lord sat on the trading-post steps during the summer evenings. Morgan had asked somebody what that “white-faced cat” was doing back on the reservation? Friel had learned of her presence. But so far Marian had been clever and fortunate enough to avoid meeting either of them face to face. She did not care, however, when that might happen.
If happiness could have been hers it might have come to her here on the desert that had somehow changed her, and in the work she had chosen. But she could not be really happy. Nophaie wrote but seldom. He was “somewhere in France.” His letters were censored, and he wrote so little of himself. Marian lived in constant dread that she would never hear from him again — that he would be killed. It did not torture her that he might be injured. For she knew that he was an Indian to whom injuries were nothing. She could not break the morbid habit of reading about the war. She had terrible dreams. She hated the Germans more and more. Even the tranquillity of the desert, its wonderful power to soothe, did not help her with this war emotion. Life did not stand still, but her heart seemed to. She endured, she made the most of her opportunities among the Nokis, and she tried not to fail in faith and hope. But the long hot summer dragged, relieved only by one short visit to the cool and mountain altitude of Flagerstown.
With the end of summer there seemed to be an end to the uneventful waiting monotony of her life.
Withers called for her one day and packed her off in his car to Kaidab. His wife was not very well and needed a change of climate, and wanted Marian to take a short trip with her to California. Marian gladly consented, and while preparations were under way for this journey she rode horseback, and climbed high on the black mesa to try to get a glimpse of Nophaie’s country. All she could attain was sight of the red pinnacles of the monuments of the Valley of Gods. But she was grateful for that.
Looking across that wild and wonderful desert of upflung rocky ramparts and green reaches of lowland, Marian thought of the Indian boy who had been born there, who had shepherded his flock in the lonely solitude, listening to the secret voices of Indian spirits, who was now fighting in France for the white men and for America. Marian’s old strength seemed to flow back to her heart. She had been sick, lonely, brooding, weary for Nophaie. She needed love. But she realized her utter selfishness in contrast to Nophaie’s nobility. Just a sight of the upland country revived her earlier spirit. She must not be found wanting. Every day added to this renewal of courage and with that, and the cooler days, there came a quickening of her energies.
Withers found the time propitious for a short absence from Kaidab. His partner, Colman, said business would grow poorer instead of better. The decline of the Nopahs’ fortunes had begun. Price of wool had been steadily falling. There was no demand for baskets and blankets. The Indians had been prodigal of everything. There were no stores laid away. And they misunderstood the decline in price for their wool while the price of all the trader’s wares soared higher.
“They’re facing the hardest winter they ever had on this desert,” concluded Colman.
“Wal, you’re talkin’,” responded Withers thoughtfully. “And if that ‘flu’ disease strikes the reservation when cold weather comes it’s good night!”
“Will the war never end?” sighed Mrs. Withers.
“End? It’s ended now. The Germans are licked. They’re stallin’ for time right now,” retorted the trader, with fire in his eyes. “They’ll never go through another winter. I almost wish they would not show a yellow streak. France has got their number. Marshal Foch ought to be allowed to wipe the Germans off the earth. If he isn’t, the Germans will trump up some trick, and they’ll come back in the future, worse than ever.”
Wither’s son Ted had gotten to France, but he was still among the reserves, back of the front line, and that fact evidently irritated the Westerner. He wanted his son to fight. Mrs. Withers, on the other hand, was grateful for the chances that had so far spared her only son. The sister of this boy shared her father’s aggressive ideas. Marian had grown war- weary. The whole terrible, incredible, and monstrous riddle revolved around Nophaie. And she had not heard from him for many weeks.
The last day of Marian’s stay at Kaidab she prevailed upon Miss Withers to ride out and climb the highest point available. Withers sent one of his Indian riders with them. They had a long, hard, and glorious ride. From the brow of a great divide Marian saw the whole vast reach of the Valley of Gods — the red sentinels of the desert — lonely and grand against the haze of distance. She saw the dark organ- shaped mesa under the shadow of which Nophaie had been born. Then far to the westward, up and up over the giant steps, she caught a glimpse of green-cedared and purple-saged uplands, and above them the huge bulk and dark dome of Nothsis Ahn.
Marian felt a tremor that was more than thrill. Her breast heaved, her sight dimmed. Wild, lonely, beautiful land of sage and canyon! She loved it. The clearest teaching of her life had come from its spell. She longed to climb the endless and rugged trail to Nophaie’s silent walls. They were not silent for her.
This day had been full, poignant, resurging with the old flood of emotions. As Marian rode across the level stretch of gray desert before Kaidab the sunset was gilding the rims of the distant mesas. Rose and lilac hazed the breaks in the walls, and the waste of sand and grass waved away under a luminous golden light.
Withers was waiting at the gate for the riders. His face wore an excited, eager, and happy expression, such as Marian had never before seen there. What could have broken this intrepid Westerner’s reserve? Marian experienced a sensation of weakness.
“Get down and come in,” he called. “Come a-rustlin’ now. I’ve got news.”
Marian tumbled off some way, and ran at the heels of Wither’s daughter, who was crying: “Oh! Dad’s got a letter from Ted!”
So indeed it turned out to be. Mrs. Withers had been crying, but was now radiant. The trader fumbled over many sheets of paper, closely covered with writing.
“Sis, you can read all of this afterward,” he was saying. “Ted’s all right. Fussin’ because he won’t see any real fight. He says what I told you all- -the Huns are licked. Whoopee!... You know I wrote Ted months ago and asked him to find out about our Indians. I’d given up hoping. But he’s found out a lot, and I’ll read it. Marian, your Nophaie has got the D.S. medal! What do you know about that?”
Marian could not have spoken then to save her life. She seemed locked in sensation — mute in the sweetest, richest, fullest, most agonizing moment of her life.
The trader fumbled over the sheets of paper. His fingers were not wholly steady.
“Here,” he began, “this letter seems less cut up than any we’ve had. Ted writes: ‘I had some luck. Happened to run across a soldier — who’d been in the thick of the front-line battles with some of our Indians. What he had to say about them was aplenty. He knew Lo Blandy when he played college football. So it’s a good guess Lo Blandy is our Nophaie. I got thick pronto with this soldier. His name is Munson. He hails from Vermont. He’d not only been in the front-line trenches with our Indians, but in the hospital with some of them. I’ve forgotten names and places, if he told me. This French lingo is sure hard for me. Munson said an officer told him there were thousands of American Indians in the service. That was news to me. It sure tickled me.
“‘A good many Indians have been killed. Whether or not any of them were Nopahs I can’t say. But the Indian who pulled the bear-trap stunt is our own nutty Shoie, the spellbinder. Munson said they called him that, and he answered exactly to the description I gave. Now it appears that every night or so Shoie would pull a crippled German into the trenches. These German soldiers would have either an arm or leg broken, and terribly lacerated. Shoie never had much to say over here. You know the Indian. But like all the other redskins, he was a wonderful scout, and therefore had something more of freedom than the white boys. These Indians were no more afraid of No Man’s Land than of crossing the desert at night. Shoie was watched. And it was discovered that he pulled these crippled Germans into the trenches in a number four bear trap, attached to a long wire. Shoie would crawl out in the darkness — they say he always picked the places where German soldiers were sneaking — and set the bear trap. Then he’d slip back to the trench to wait. When he got one, everybody along that line sure knew of it. For the Germans hollered like hell. At that to crawl into a number four bear trap would make any man holler. All Shoie said was: “Me catch- um whole damn German army!”... I guess maybe the buddies didn’t hand it to this Indian.
“‘Well, there’s more about Lo Blandy. Munson lay in the hospital with him, and found out he had been wounded four times, the last time seriously. But he seemed nearly well then. That was three weeks ago. Blandy — or Nophaie — was to be discharged and sent home as an invalid, incapacitated for further service. He had been in everything the war afforded except actual death. That seemed to miss him. Munson said Nophaie was indifferent to danger and pain. Shell-shock had affected him somewhat, and gassed lungs made him a probable consumptive. But to Munson he was certainly far from a physical wreck. I think Munson said Nophaie got into the great Chatoo-Therry (how’d you spell that?) mix-up, and that an officer gave him the D.S. right off his own breast. Sure some stunt for an officer, believe me!
“‘Anyway, Nophaie, along with other Indians, must be on the way home by now. I’m sure glad. It simply was grand to hear what devils they were among the Germans. I can’t remember ever caring a whoop about the Nopahs. But I’ve a hunch that a lot of Americans, including myself, haven’t ever appreciated the red man.
“‘My chance of plugging a Fritz has become slim indeed, and for that reason I’m sure homesick for you all, and the smell of cedar smoke and sheep wool.’”
CHAPTER XIX
NEWS OF THE armistice did not reach Mesa until late in the afternoon of that memorable November day. It came from the lips of the mail carrier. He was not credited. Paxton rushed to the telephone to call up Flagerstown, only to find the wire down. A crowd of Indians collected around the mail carrier, and they all believed him. Only the whites were skeptical.
“Oh, it’s too good to be true,” said Mrs. Paxton to Marian.
“It must come soon,” breathed Marian, tensely. Had she not a letter in her bosom — from Nophaie — telling of the deterioration of German morale?
Paxton came striding in, half out of his wits between doubt and hope. He nearly fell over the baby. He hugged his wife — then suddenly ridiculed her hopeful assumption.
Marian went out through the store, down the stone steps, and into the crowd of Indians around the mail carrier. Both Nokis and Nopahs formed that group. Excitement was rife. They jabbered in their low guttural speech. Marian smelled whisky. But resolutely forcing her way in, she got to the mail carrier.
He was certainly in possession of his senses. Indeed, he was somber, almost stern. If emotion held him it was deep set.
“What have you heard?” she asked in her own language.
“War over. Germans run — holler no more shoot — want make big council,” he replied.
“Who said so?”
“All come over wire. Heap talk over wire.... Men run round — get drunk — white squaws yell like hell.... All stop work — bells ring — big smoke pipe on lumber mill blow steam long time — no hear.”
And the Indian made significant motion to his ear, and then to his head, indication of his idea of a people with whirling brain.
Marian hurried back to the Paxtons.
“Friends, the Indian is telling the truth. There’s a jubilee in Flagerstown. What else but peace could account for it?”
“Oh, it’s too good to be true,” repeated Mrs. Paxton.
Just then Paxton’s clerk came running in. He was pale, and appeared about to choke.
“Eckersall on the phone,” he blurted out. “War over!... Friel brought news — he and Leamon. They just got in from town. Everybody gone crazy.”
Eckersall was the government farmer down at Copenwashie and an old Westerner not given to hyperbole.
Paxton suddenly sat down as if glad for support. His wife hugged the little baby, and cried out, “Thank God!”
The clerk ran back to the store, and Paxton got up to rush after him. Marian and Mrs. Paxton indulged in a few moments of heartfelt felicitations, not unmixed with tears. And these few simple reactions appeared to be the forerunners of an hour of mounting excitement. Supper was not thought of. Outside in front of the trading post the crowd grew apace, and now white faces began to mingle with the dark ones. Friel’s car came humming along, and it contained three other white men and several Indians. The latter leaped off as Friel drove on. He saw Marian standing on the steps, and waving his hand he yelled, “War over!” Marian waved back, and this was the only time she had ever been glad to see the missionary. He was the bearer of blessed news. He drove on, manifestly in a hurry to get to government headquarters.
The November air was raw and cold. It chilled Marian through. She went into the Paxtons’ sitting-room, where she sat by the window. The trader came through and opened the window. “Don’t miss anything. There’ll be hell. Blucher has arrested some Nopahs. And I’ll bet they never go to jail.”
Marian was now all eyes and ears. The trader kept running to and fro, with his wife at his heels. She was trying to make him stay in the house. Nothing unusual, however, occurred outside for a while. The crowd swelled to upwards of a hundred Indians, a motley dark assemblage, divided into several groups, each of which undoubtedly surrounded an Indian with a bottle. The white men had drawn apart.
It had been rather an overcast day, with clouds massing in the west. The time was perhaps an hour before sunset. The purple-and-gray curtain broke to let out a ruddy sulphurous glow that brightened the desert and tinged the canopied sky. There was no hue of silver or gold. Shades of red burned against the purple, making a strange, weird, yet beautiful approach to sunset.
