



Produced by Bill Brewer and Rick Fane








THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

A NOVEL

By Zane Grey





CONTENTS


I.   THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET

II.   WHITE SAGE

III.   THE TRAIL OF THE RED WALL

IV.   THE OASIS

V.   BLACK SAGE AND JUNIPER

VI.   THE WIND IN THE CEDARS

VII.   SILVERMANE

IX.   THE SCENT OF DESERT-WATER

X.   RIDING THE RANGES

XI.   THE DESERT-HAWK

XII.   ECHO CLIFFS

XIII.   THE SOMBRE LINE

XIV.   WOLF

XV.   DESERT NIGHT

XVI.   THUNDER RIVER

XVII.   THE SWOOP OF THE HAWK

XVIII.     THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT

XIX.   UNLEASHED

XX.   THE RAGE OF THE OLD LION

XXI.   MESCAL









I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET

"BUT the man's almost dead."

The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life. He opened his
eyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that
had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood a
sombre group of men.

"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. "He's the
fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He's all
but dead. Dene's outlaws are after him. Don't cross Dene."

The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a
follower of Cromwell.

"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene or
any other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God."

"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly. "You would
cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down
from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I've suffered
enough at the hands of Dene."

The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving
Hare that he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there the
strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few
days with the stern reality of the present.

"Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, like
one reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land to
worship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prospered
with the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, all
hostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever fail
to succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perils
compared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turn
from mercy because of a cut-throat outlaw? I like not the sign of the
times, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God."

"August Naab, I am a Mormon too," returned Cole, "but my hands are
stained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes and
your cattle. Yes, I know. You're strong, stronger than any of us, far
off in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons,
guarded by your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on
you. He'll ignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will
steal cattle under your very eyes. Don't make them enemies."

"I can't pass by this helpless man," rolled out August Naab's sonorous
voice.

Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward.
"There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not
ten miles away. See them?"

The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to
the west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched the waste, and followed
the red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional
in its craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust
rose above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.

"See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my
prophecy," cried Cole, fanatically. "The red sunset--the sign of the
times--blood!"

A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme
west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of
striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in
the desert's sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the dark
cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round,
floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with
inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his
companions as they stared.

Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the
tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the
sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up,
to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.

"That may be God's will," said August Naab. "So be it. Martin Cole, take
your men and go."

There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups,
the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush
of fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.

A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your-
-generous act--can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left
me--seeing you have women in your party."

"Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here--drink."
He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a
flask to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons. We've
an hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-
dune we'll have longer."

Hare's flagging senses rallied, and he forgot himself in wonder. While
the bustle went on, unhitching of wagon-teams, hobbling and feeding of
horses, unpacking of camp-supplies, Naab appeared to be lost in deep
meditation or prayer. Not once did he glance backward over the trail on
which peril was fast approaching. His gaze was fastened on a ridge to
the east where desert line, fringed by stunted cedars, met the pale-blue
sky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length he
turned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron
pots in position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing
the evening meal.

A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the
sand, fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night
fell; one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone
of blackness surrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry
whine, the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.

"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful
of grease-wood.

Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young, yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years. Hare
could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel eye
and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the
others young, were of comely, serious aspect.

"Mescal," called the Mormon.

A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.

August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family
bowed their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food
laid on the ground.

"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.
Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless this
stranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, O
Lord--Amen."

Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable to
control a painful binding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he had
learned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of this
austere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in its
place stirred something warm and living. He was glad, for if he had to
die, as he believed, either from the deed of evil men, or from this last
struggle of his wasted body, he did not want to die in bitterness. That
simple prayer recalled the home he had long since left in Connecticut,
and the time when he used to tease his sister and anger his father and
hurt his mother while grace was being said at the breakfast-table. Now
he was alone in the world, sick and dependent upon the kindness of these
strangers. But they were really friends--it was a wonderful thought.

"Mescal, wait on the stranger," said August Naab, and the girl knelt
beside him, tendering meat and drink. His nerveless fingers refused to
hold the cup, and she put it to his lips while he drank. Hot coffee
revived him; he ate and grew stronger, and readily began to talk when
the Mormon asked for his story.

"There isn't much to tell. My name is Hare. I am twenty-four. My parents
are dead. I came West because the doctors said I couldn't live in the
East. At first I got better. But my money gave out and work became a
necessity. I tramped from place to place, ending up ill in Salt Lake
City. People were kind to me there. Some one got me a job with a big
cattle company, and sent me to Marysvale, southward over the bleak
plains. It was cold; I was ill when I reached Lund. Before I even knew
what my duties were for at Lund I was to begin work--men called me a
spy. A fellow named Chance threatened me. An innkeeper led me out the
back way, gave me bread and water, and said: 'Take this road to Bane;
it's sixteen miles. If you make it some one'll give you a lift North.' I
walked all night, and all the next day. Then I wandered on till I
dropped here where you found me."

"You missed the road to Bane," said Naab. "This is the trail to White
Sage. It's a trail of sand and stone that leaves no tracks, a lucky
thing for you. Dene wasn't in Lund while you were there--else you
wouldn't be here. He hasn't seen you, and he can't be certain of your
trail. Maybe he rode to Bane, but still we may find a way--"

One of his sons whistled low, causing Naab to rise slowly, to peer into
the darkness, to listen intently.

"Here, get up," he said, extending a hand to Hare. "Pretty shaky, eh?
Can you walk? Give me a hold--there.... Mescal, come." The slender girl
obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. "Take his arm." Between them
they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circle of
light.

"It wouldn't do to hide," continued Naab, lowering his