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

Kiss me, Mescal. One kiss will pay for that long year, though it broke my heart.”

Shyly she raised her hands to his shoulders and put her lips to his. “Yes, you've found me, Jack, thank God! just in time!”

“Mescal! What's wrong? Aren't you well?”

“Pretty well. But if you had not come soon I should have starved.”

“Starved? Let me get my saddle-bags—I have bread and meat.”

“Wait. I'm not so hungry now. I mean very soon I should not have had any food at all.”

“But your peon—the dumb Indian? Surely he could find something to eat. What of him? Where is he?”

“My peon is dead. He has been dead for months, I don't know how many.”

“Dead! What was the matter with him?”

“I never knew. I found him dead one morning and I buried him in the sand.”

Mescal led Hare under the cottonwoods and pointed to the Indian's grave, now green with grass. Farther on in a circle of trees stood a little hogan skilfully constructed out of brush; the edge of a red blanket peeped from the door; a burnt-out fire smoked on a stone fireplace, and blackened earthen vessels lay near. The white seeds of the cottonwoods were flying light as feathers; plum-trees were pink in blossom; there were vines twining all about; through the openings in the foliage shone the blue of sky and red of cliff. Patches of blossoming Bowers were here and there lit to brilliance by golden shafts of sunlight. The twitter of birds and hum of bees were almost drowned in the soft roar of water.

“Is that the Colorado I hear?” asked Hare.

“No, that's Thunder River. The Colorado is farther down in the Grand Canyon.”

“Farther down! Mescal, I must have come a mile from the rim. Where are we?”

“We are almost at the Colorado, and directly under the head of Coconina. We can see the mountain from the break in the valley below.”

“Come sit by me here under this tree. Tell me—how did you ever get here?”

Then Mescal told him how the peon had led her on a long trail from Bitter Seeps, how they had camped at desert waterholes, and on the fourth day descended to Thunder River.

“I was quite happy at first. It's always summer down here. There were rabbits, birds, beaver, and fruit—we had enough to eat. I explored the valley with Wolf or rode Noddle up and down the canyon. Then my peon died, and I had to shift for myself. There came a time when the beaver left the valley, and Wolf and I had to make a rabbit serve for days. I knew then I'd have to get across the desert to the Navajos or starve in the canyon. I hesitated about climbing out into the desert, for I wasn't sure of the trail to the waterholes. Noddle wandered off up the canyon and never came back. After he was gone and I knew I couldn't get out I grew homesick. The days weren't so bad because I was always hunting for something to eat, but the nights were lonely. I couldn't sleep. I lay awake listening to the river, and at last I could hear whispering and singing and music, and strange sounds, and low thunder, always low thunder. I wasn't really frightened, only lonely, and the canyon was so black and full of mutterings. Sometimes I'd dream I was back on the plateau with you, Jack, and Bolly and the sheep, and when I'd awake in the loneliness I'd cry right out—”

“Mescal, I heard those cries,” said Hare.

“It was strange—the way I felt. I believe if I'd never known and—and loved you, Jack, I'd have forgotten home. After I'd been here a while, I seemed to be drifting, drifting. It was as if I had lived in the canyon long before, and was remembering. The feeling was strong, but always thoughts of you, and of the big world, brought me back to the present with its loneliness and fear of starvation. Then I wanted you, and I'd cry out. I knew I must send Wolf home. How hard it was to make him go! But at last he trotted off, looking backward, and I—waited and waited.”

She leaned against him. The hand which had plucked at his sleeve dropped to his fingers and clung there. Hare knew how her story had slighted the perils and privations of that long year. She had grown lonely in the canyon darkness; she had sent Wolf away and had waited—all was said in that. But more than any speech, the look of her, and the story told in the thin brown hands touched his heart. Not for an instant since his arrival had she altogether let loose of his fingers, or coat, or arm. She had lived so long alone in this weird world of silence and moving shadows and murmuring water, that she needed to feel the substance of her hopes, to assure herself of the reality of the man she loved.

“My mustang—Bolly—tell me of her,” said Mescal.

“Bolly's fine. Sleek and fat and lazy! She's been in the fields ever since you left. Not a bridle on her. Many times have I seen her poke her black muzzle over the fence and look down the lane. She'd never forget you, Mescal.”

“Oh! how I want to see her! Tell me—everything.”

“Wait a little. Let me fetch Silvermane and we'll make a fire and eat. Then—”

“Tell me now.”

“Well, Mescal, it's soon told.” Then came the story of events growing out of her flight. When he told of the shooting at Silver Cup, Mescal rose with heaving bosom and blazing eyes.

“It was nothing—I wasn't hurt much. Only the intention was bad. We saw no more of Snap or Holderness. The worst of it all was that Snap's wife died.”

“Oh, I am sorry—sorry. Poor Father Naab! How he must hate me, the cause of it all! But I couldn't stay—I couldn't marry Snap.”

“Don't blame yourself, Mescal. What Snap might have done if you had married him is guesswork. He might have left drink alone a while longer. But he was bad clean through. I heard Dave Naab tell him that. Snap would have gone over to Holderness sooner or later. And now he's a rustler, if not worse.”

“Then those men think Snap killed you?”

“Yes.”

“What's going to happen when you meet Snap, or any of them?”

“Somebody will be surprised,” replied Hare, with a laugh.

“Jack, it's no laughing matter.” She fastened her hands in the lapels of his coat and her eyes grew sad. “You can never hang up your gun again.”

“No. But perhaps I can keep out of their way, especially Snap's. Mescal, you've forgotten Silvermane, and how he can run.”

“I haven't forgotten. He can run, but he can't beat Bolly.” She said this with a hint of her old spirit.