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

“Why didn't you unlimber the long rifle?” interposed Dave, curiously.

“I got it full of water and sand. That reminds me I must see about cleaning it. I never thought of shooting back. Silvermane was running too fast.”

“Jack, you can see I am in the worst fix of my life,” said August Naab. “My sons have persuaded me that I was pushed off my ranges too easily. I've come to believe Martin Cole; certainly his prophecy has come true. Dave brought news from White Sage, and it's almost unbelievable. Holderness has proclaimed himself or has actually got himself elected sheriff. He holds office over the Mormons from whom he steals. Scarcely a day goes by in the village without a killing. The Mormons north of Lund finally banded together, hanged some rustlers, and drove the others out. Many of them have come down into our country, and Holderness now has a strong force. But the Mormons will rise against him. I know it; I see it. I am waiting for it. We are God-fearing, life-loving men, slow to wrath. But—”

The deep rolling burr in his voice showed emotion too deep for words.

“They need a leader,” replied Hare, sharply.

August Naab rose with haggard face and his eyes had the look of a man accused.

“Dad figures this way,” put in Dave. “On the one hand we lose our water and stock without bloodshed. We have a living in the oasis. There's little here to attract rustlers, so we may live in peace if we give up our rights. On the other hand, suppose Dad gets the Navajos down here and we join them and go after Holderness and his gang. There's going to be an all-fired bloody fight. Of course we'd wipe out the rustlers, but some of us would get killed—and there are the wives and kids. See!”

The force of August Naab's argument for peace, entirely aside from his Christian repugnance to the shedding of blood, was plainly unassailable.

“Remember what Snap said?” asked Hare, suddenly. “One man to kill Dene! Therefore one man to kill Holderness! That would break the power of this band.”

“Ah! you've said it,” replied Dave, raising a tense arm. “It's a one-man job. D—n Snap! He could have done it, if he hadn't gone to the bad. But it won't be easy. I tried to get Holderness. He was wise, and his men politely said they had enjoyed my call, but I wasn't to come again.”

“One man to kill Holderness!” repeated Hare.

August Naab cast at the speaker one of his far-seeing glances; then he shook himself, as if to throw off the grip of something hard and inevitable. “I'm still master here,” he said, and his voice showed the conquest of his passions.

“I give up Silver Cup and my stock. Maybe that will content Holderness.”

Some days went by pleasantly for Hare, as he rested from his long exertions. Naab's former cheer and that of his family reasserted itself once the decision was made, and the daily life went on as usual. The sons worked in the fields by day, and in the evening played at pitching horseshoes on the bare circle where the children romped. The women went on baking, sewing, and singing. August Naab's prayers were more fervent than ever, and he even prayed for the soul of the man who had robbed him. Mescal's cheeks soon rounded out to their old contour and her eyes shone with a happier light than Hare had ever seen there. The races between Silvermane and Black Bolly were renewed on the long stretch under the wall, and Mescal forgot that she had once acknowledged the superiority of the gray. The cottonwoods showered silken floss till the cabins and grass were white; the birds returned to the oasis; the sun kissed warm color into the cherries, and the distant noise of the river seemed like the humming of a swarm of bees.

“Here, Jack,” said August Naab, one morning, “get a spade and come with me. There's a break somewhere in the ditch.”

Hare went with him out along the fence by the alfalfa fields, and round the corner of red wall toward the irrigating dam.

“Well, Jack, I suppose you'll be asking me for Mescal one of these days,” said Naab.

“Yes,” replied Hare.

“There's a little story to tell you about Mescal, when the day comes.”

“Tell it now.”

“No. Not yet. I'm glad you found her. I never knew her to be so happy, not even when she was a child. But somehow there's a better feeling between her and my womenfolk. The old antagonism is gone. Well, well, life is so. I pray that things may turn out well for you and her. But I fear—I seem to see—Hare, I'm a poor man once more. I can't do for you what I'd like. Still we'll see, we'll hope.”

Hare was perfectly happy. The old Mormon's hint did not disturb him; even the thought of Snap Naab did not return to trouble his contentment. The full present was sufficient for Hare, and his joy bubbled over, bringing smiles to August's grave face. Never had a summer afternoon in the oasis been so fair. The green fields, the red walls, the blue sky, all seemed drenched in deeper, richer hues. The wind-song in the crags, the river-murmur from the canyon, filled Hare's ears with music. To be alive, to feel the sun, to see the colors, to hear the sounds, was beautiful; and to know that Mescal awaited him, was enough.

Work on the washed-out bank of the ditch had not gone far when Naab raised his head as if listening.

“Did you hear anything?” he asked.

“No,” replied Hare.

“The roar of the river is heavy here. Maybe I was mistaken. I thought I heard shots.” Then he went on spading clay into the break, but he stopped every moment or so, uneasily, as if he could not get rid of some disturbing thought. Suddenly he dropped the spade and his eyes flashed.

“Judith! Judith! Here!” he called. Wheeling with a sudden premonition of evil Hare saw the girl running along the wall toward them. Her face was white as death; she wrung her hands and her cries rose above the sound of the river. Naab sprang toward her and Hare ran at his heels.

“Father!— Father!” she panted. “Come—quick—the rustlers!—the rustlers! Snap!—Dene—Oh—hurry! They've killed Dave—they've got Mescal!”

Death itself shuddered through Hare's veins and then a raging flood of fire. He bounded forward to be flung back by Naab's arm.

“Fool! Would you throw away your life? Go slowly. We'll slip through the fields, under the trees.”

Sick and cold Hare hurried by Naab's side round the wall and into the alfalfa. There were moments when he was weak and trembling; others when he could have leaped like a tiger to rend and kill.

They left the fields and went on more cautiously into the grove. The screaming and wailing of women added certainty to their doubt and dread.

“I see only the women—the children—no—there's