The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel by Zane Grey (book reader for pc .TXT) 📗

of his emotion. Martin Cole was the last of his life-long friends.

“This—this outlaw—you say you ran him down?” asked Naab, rising haggard and shaken out of his grief.

“Yes. He didn't recognize me or know what was coming till Silvermane was on him. But he was quick, and fell sidewise. Silvermane's knee sent him sprawling.”

“What will it all lead to?” asked August Naab, and in his extremity he appealed to his eldest son.

“The bars are down,” said Snap Naab, with a click of his long teeth.

“Father,” began Dave Naab earnestly, “Jack has done a splendid thing. The news will fly over Utah like wildfire. Mormons are slow. They need a leader. But they can follow and they will. We can't cure these evils by hoping and praying. We've got to fight!”

“Dave's right, dad, it means fight,” cried George, with his fist clinched high.

“You've been wrong, father, in holding back,” said Zeke Naab, his lean jaw bulging. “This Holderness will steal the water and meat out of our children's mouths. We've got to fight!”

“Let's ride to White Sage,” put in Snap Naab, and the little flecks in his eyes were dancing. “I'll throw a gun on Dene. I can get to him. We've been tolerable friends. He's wanted me to join his band. I'll kill him.”

He laughed as he raised his right hand and swept it down to his left side; the blue Colt lay on his outstretched palm. Dene's life and Holderness's, too, hung in the balance between two deadly snaps of this desert-wolf's teeth. He was one of the Naabs, and yet apart from them, for neither religion, nor friendship, nor life itself mattered to him.

August Naab's huge bulk shook again, not this time with grief, but in wrestling effort to withstand the fiery influence of this unholy fighting spirit among his sons.

“I am forbidden.”

His answer was gentle, but its very gentleness breathed of his battle over himself, of allegiance to something beyond earthly duty. “We'll drive the cattle to Silver Cup,” he decided, “and then go home. I give up Seeping Springs. Perhaps this valley and water will content Holderness.”

When they reached the oasis Hare was surprised to find that it was the day before Christmas. The welcome given the long-absent riders was like a celebration. Much to Hare's disappointment Mescal did not appear; the homecoming was not joyful to him because it lacked her welcoming smile.

Christmas Day ushered in the short desert winter; ice formed in the ditches and snow fell, but neither long resisted the reflection of the sun from the walls. The early morning hours were devoted to religious services. At midday dinner was served in the big room of August Naab's cabin. At one end was a stone fireplace where logs blazed and crackled.

In all his days Hare had never seen such a bountiful board. Yet he was unable to appreciate it, to share in the general thanksgiving. Dominating all other feeling was the fear that Mescal would come in and take a seat by Snap Naab's side. When Snap seated himself opposite with his pale little wife Hare found himself waiting for Mescal with an intensity that made him dead to all else. The girls, Judith, Esther, Rebecca, came running gayly in, clad in their best dresses, with bright ribbons to honor the occasion. Rebecca took the seat beside Snap, and Hare gulped with a hard contraction of his throat. Mescal was not yet a Mormon's wife! He seemed to be lifted upward, to grow light-headed with the blessed assurance. Then Mescal entered and took the seat next to him. She smiled and spoke, and the blood beat thick in his ears.

That moment was happy, but it was as nothing to its successor. Under the table-cover Mescal's hand found his, and pressed it daringly and gladly. Her hand lingered in his all the time August Naab spent in carving the turkey—lingered there even though Snap Naab's hawk eyes were never far away. In the warm touch of her hand, in some subtle thing that radiated from her Hare felt a change in the girl he loved. A few months had wrought in her some indefinable difference, even as they had increased his love to its full volume and depth. Had his absence brought her to the realization of her woman's heart?

In the afternoon Hare left the house and spent a little while with Silvermane; then he wandered along the wall to the head of the oasis, and found a seat on the fence. The next few weeks presented to him a situation that would be difficult to endure. He would be near Mescal, but only to have the truth forced cruelly home to him every sane moment—that she was not for him. Out on the ranges he had abandoned himself to dreams of her; they had been beautiful; they had made the long hours seem like minutes; but they had forged chains that could not be broken, and now he was hopelessly fettered.

The clatter of hoofs roused him from a reverie which was half sad, half sweet. Mescal came tearing down the level on Black Bolly. She pulled in the mustang and halted beside Hare to hold out shyly a red scarf embroidered with Navajo symbols in white and red beads.

“I've wanted a chance to give you this,” she said, “a little Christmas present.”

For a few seconds Hare could find no words.

“Did you make it for me, Mescal?” he finally asked. “How good of you! I'll keep it always.”

“Put it on now—let me tie it—there!”

“But, child. Suppose he—they saw it?”

“I don't care who sees it.”

She met him with clear, level eyes. Her curt, crisp speech was full of meaning. He looked long at her, with a yearning denied for many a day. Her face was the same, yet wonderfully changed; the same in line and color, but different in soul and spirit. The old sombre shadow lay deep in the eyes, but to it had been added gleam of will and reflection of thought. The whole face had been refined and transformed.

“Mescal! What's happened? You're not the same. You seem almost happy. Have you—has he—given you up?”

“Don't you know Mormons better than that? The thing is the same—so far as they're concerned.”

“But Mescal—are you going to marry him? For God's sake, tell me.”

“Never.” It was a woman's word, instant, inflexible, desperate. With a deep breath Hare realized where the girl had changed.

“Still you're promised, pledged to him! How'll you get out of it?”

“I don't know how. But I'll cut out my tongue, and be dumb as my poor peon before I'll speak the word that'll make me Snap Naab's wife.”

There was a long silence. Mescal smoothed out Bolly's mane, and Hare gazed up at the walls with eyes that did not see them.

Presently he spoke. “I'm afraid for you. Snap watched us to-day at dinner.”

“He's jealous.”