Zane Grey (9 page)

Nimble, alert, the big white dog was not still a moment. His duty was to
keep the flock compact, to head the stragglers and turn them back; and he
knew his part perfectly. There was dash and fire in his work. He never
barked. As he circled the flock the small Navajo sheep, edging ever
toward forbidden ground, bleated their way back to the fold, the larger
ones wheeled reluctantly, and the old belled rams squared themselves,
lowering their massive horns as if to butt him. Never, however, did they
stand their ground when he reached them, for there was a decision about
Wolf which brooked no opposition. At times when he was working on one
side a crafty sheep on the other would steal out into the thicket. Then
Mescal called and Wolf flashed back to her, lifting his proud head,
eager, spirited, ready to take his order. A word, a wave of her whip
sufficed for the dog to rout out the recalcitrant sheep and send him
bleating to his fellows.

"He manages them easily now," said Naab, "but when the lambs come they
can't be kept in. The coyotes and wolves hang out in the thickets and
pick up the stragglers. The worst enemy of sheep, though, is the old
grizzly bear. Usually he is grouchy, and dangerous to hunt. He comes
into the herd, kills the mother sheep, and eats the milk-bag—no more!
He will kill forty sheep in a night. Piute saw the tracks of one up on
the high range, and believes this bear is following the flock. Let's get
off into the woods some little way, into the edge of the thickets—for
Piute always keeps to the glades—and see if we can pick off a few
coyotes."

August cautioned Jack to step stealthily, and slip from cedar to cedar,
to use every bunch of sage and juniper to hide his advance.

"Watch sharp, Jack. I've seen two already. Look for moving things.
Don't try to see one quiet, for you can't till after your eye catches him
moving. They are gray, gray as the cedars, the grass, the ground. Good!
Yes, I see him, but don't shoot. That's too far. Wait. They sneak
away, but they return. You can afford to make sure. Here now, by that
stone—aim low and be quick."

In the course of a mile, without keeping the sheep near at hand, they saw
upward of twenty coyotes, five of which Jack killed in as many shots.

"You've got the hang of it," said Naab, rubbing his hands. "You'll kill
the varmints. Piute will skin and salt the pelts. Now I'm going up on
the high range to look for bear sign. Go ahead, on your own hook."

Hare was regardless of time while he stole under the cedars and through
the thickets, spying out the cunning coyotes. Then Naab's yell pealing
out claimed his attention; he answered and returned. When they met he
recounted his adventures in mingled excitement and disappointment.

"Are you tired?" asked Naab.

"Tired? No," replied Jack.

"Well, you mustn't overdo the very first day. I've news for you. There
are some wild horses on the high range. I didn't see them, but found
tracks everywhere. If they come down here you send Piute to close the
trail at the upper end of the bench, and you close the one where we came
up. There are only two trails where even a deer can get off this
plateau, and both are narrow splits in the wall, which can be barred by
the gates. We made the gates to keep the sheep in, and they'll serve a
turn. If you get the wild horses on the bench send Piute for me at
once."

They passed the Indian herding the sheep into a corral built against an
uprising ridge of stone. Naab dispatched him to look for the dead
coyotes. The three burros were in camp, two wearing empty pack-saddles,
and Noddle, for once not asleep, was eating from Mescal's hand.

"Mescal, hadn't I better take Black Bolly home?" asked August.

"Mayn't I keep her?"

"She's yours. But you run a risk. There are wild horses on the range.
Will you keep her hobbled?"

"Yes," replied Mescal, reluctantly. "Though I don't believe Bolly would
run off from me."

"Look out she doesn't go, hobbles and all. Jack, here's the other bit of
news I have for you. There's a big grizzly camping on the trail of our
sheep. Now what I want to know is—shall I leave him to you, or put off
work and come up here to wait for him myself?"

"Why—" said Jack, slowly, "whatever you say. If you think you can
safely leave him to me—I'm willing."

"A grizzly won't be pleasant to face. I never knew one of those
sheep-killers that wouldn't run at a man, if wounded."

"Tell me what to do."

"If he comes down it's more than likely to be after dark. Don't risk
hunting him then. Wait till morning, and put Wolf on his trail. He'll
be up in the rocks, and by holding in the dog you may find him asleep in
a cave. However, if you happen to meet him by day do this. Don't waste
any shots. Climb a ledge or tree if one be handy. If not, stand your
ground. Get down on your knee and shoot and let him come. Mind you,
he'll grunt when he's hit, and start for you, and keep coming till he's
dead. Have confidence in yourself and your gun, for you can kill him.
Aim low, and shoot steady. If he keeps on coming there's always a fatal
shot, and that is when he rises. You'll see a bare spot on his breast.
Put a forty-four into that, and he'll go down."

August had spoken so easily, quite as if he were explaining how to shear
a yearling sheep, that Jack's feelings fluctuated between amazement and
laughter. Verily this desert man was stripped of all the false fears of
civilization.

"Now, Jack, I'm off. Good-bye and good luck. Mescal, look out for
him. . . . So-ho! Noddle! Getup! Biscuit!" And with many a cheery word and
slap he urged the burros into the forest, where they and his tall form
soon disappeared among the trees.

Piute came stooping toward camp so burdened with coyotes that he could
scarcely be seen under the gray pile. With a fervent "damn" he tumbled
them under a cedar, and trotted back into the forest for another load.
Jack insisted on assuming his share of the duties about camp; and Mescal
assigned him to the task of gathering firewood, breaking red-hot sticks
of wood into small pieces, and raking them into piles of live coals.
Then they ate, these two alone. Jack did not do justice to the supper;
excitement had robbed him of appetite. He told Mescal how he had crept
upon the coyotes, how so many had eluded him, how he had missed a gray
wolf. He plied her with questions about the sheep, and wanted to know if
there would be more wolves, and if she thought the "silvertip" would
come. He was quite carried away by the events of the day.

The sunset drew him to the rim. Dark clouds were mantling the desert
like rolling smoke from a prairie-fire. He almost stumbled over Mescal,
who sat with her back to a stone. Wolf lay with his head in her lap, and
he growled.

"There's a storm on the desert," she said. "Those smoky streaks are
flying sand. We may have snow to-night. It's colder, and the wind is
north. See, I've a blanket. You had better get one."

He thanked her and went for it. Piute was eating his supper, and the
peon had just come in. The bright campfire was agreeable, yet Hare did
not feel cold. But he wrapped himself in a blanket and returned to
Mescal and sat beside her. The desert lay indistinct in the foreground,
inscrutable beyond; the canyon lost its line in gloom. The solemnity of
the scene stilled his unrest, the strange freedom of longings unleashed
that day. What had come over him? He shook his head; but with the
consciousness of self returned a feeling of fatigue, the burning pain in
his chest, the bitter-sweet smell of black sage and juniper.

"You love this outlook?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Do you sit here often?"

"Every evening."

"Is it the sunset that you care for, the roar of the river, just being
here high above it all?"

"It's that last, perhaps; I don't know."

"Haven't you been lonely?"

"No."

"You'd rather be here with the sheep than be in Lund, or Salt Lake City,
as Esther and Judith want to be?"

"Yes."

Any other reply from her would not have been consistent with the
impression she was making on him. As yet he had hardly regarded her as a
young girl; she had been part of this beautiful desert-land. But he
began to see in her a responsive being, influenced by his presence. If
the situation was wonderful to him what must it be for her? Like a shy,
illusive creature, unused to men, she was troubled by questions, fearful
of the sound of her own voice. Yet in repose, as she watched the lights
and shadows, she was serene, unconscious; her dark, quiet glance was
dreamy and sad, and in it was the sombre, brooding strength of the
desert.

Twilight and falling dew sent them back to the camp. Piute and Peon were
skinning coyotes by the blaze of the fire. The night wind had not yet
risen; the sheep were quiet; there was no sound save the crackle of
burning cedar sticks. Jack began to talk; he had to talk, so, addressing
Piute and the dumb peon, he struck at random into speech, and words
flowed with a rush. Piute approved, for he said "damn" whenever his
intelligence grasped a meaning, and the peon twisted his lips and fixed
his diamond eyes upon Hare in rapt gaze. The sound of a voice was
welcome to the sentinels of that lonely sheep-range. Jack talked of
cities, of ships, of people, of simple things in the life he had left,
and he discovered that Mescal listened. Not only did she listen; she
became absorbed; it was romance to her, fulfilment of her vague dreams.
Nor did she seek her tent till he ceased; then with a startled
"good-night" she was gone.

From under the snugness of his warm blankets Jack watched out the last
wakeful moments of that day of days. A star peeped through the fringe of
cedar foliage. The wind sighed, and rose steadily, to sweep over him
with breath of ice, with the fragrance of juniper and black sage and a
tang of cedar.

But that day was only the beginning of eventful days, of increasing
charm, of forgetfulness of self, of time that passed unnoted. Every
succeeding day was like its predecessor, only richer. Every day the
hoar-frost silvered the dawn; the sheep browsed; the coyotes skulked in
the thickets; the rifle spoke truer and truer. Every sunset Mescal's
changing eyes mirrored the desert. Every twilight Jack sat beside her in
the silence; every night, in the camp-fire flare, he talked to Piute and
the peon.

The Indians were appreciative listeners, whether they understood Jack or
not, but his talk with them was only a presence. He wished to reveal the
outside world to Mescal, and he saw with pleasure that every day she grew
more interested.

One evening he was telling of New York City, of the monster buildings
where men worked, and of the elevated railways, for the time was the late
seventies and they were still a novelty. Then something unprecedented
occurred, inasmuch as Piute earnestly and vigorously interrupted Jack,
demanding to have this last strange story made more clear. Jack did his
best in gesture and speech, but he had to appeal to Mescal to translate
his meaning to the Indian. This Mescal did with surprising fluency. The
result, however, was that Piute took exception to the story of trains
carrying people through the air. He lost his grin and regarded Jack with
much disfavor. Evidently he was experiencing the bitterness of misplaced
trust.

"Heap damn lie!" he exclaimed with a growl, and stalked off into the
gloom.

Piute's expressive doubt discomfited Hare, but only momentarily, for
Mescal's silvery peal of laughter told him that the incident had brought
them closer together. He laughed with her and discovered a well of
joyousness behind her reserve. Thereafter he talked directly to Mescal.
The ice being broken she began to ask questions, shyly at first, yet more
and more eagerly, until she forgot herself in the desire to learn of
cities and people; of women especially, what they wore and how they
lived, and all that life meant to them.

The sweetest thing which had ever come to Hare was the teaching of this
desert girl. How naive in her questions and how quick to grasp she was!
The reaching out of her mind was like the unfolding of a rose. Evidently
the Mormon restrictions had limited her opportunities to learn.

But her thought had striven to escape its narrow confines, and now,
liberated by sympathy and intelligence, it leaped forth.

Lambing-time came late in May, and Mescal, Wolf, Piute and Jack knew no
rest. Night-time was safer for the sheep than the day, though the
howling of a thousand coyotes made it hideous for the shepherds. All in
a day, seemingly, the little fleecy lambs came, as if by magic, and
filled the forest with piping bleats. Then they were tottering after
their mothers, gamboling at a day's growth, wilful as youth—and the
carnage began. Boldly the coyotes darted out of thicket and bush, and
many lambs never returned to their mothers. Gaunt shadows hovered always
near; the great timber-wolves waited in covert for prey. Piute slept not
at all, and the dog's jaws were flecked with blood morning and night.
Jack hung up fifty-four coyotes the second day; the third he let them
lie, seventy in number. Many times the rifle-barrel burned his hands.
His aim grew unerring, so that running brutes in range dropped in their
tracks. Many a gray coyote fell with a lamb in his teeth.

One night when sheep and lambs were in the corral, and the shepherds
rested round the camp-fire, the dog rose quivering, sniffed the cold
wind, and suddenly bristled with every hair standing erect.

"Wolf!" called Mescal.

The sheep began to bleat. A rippling crash, a splintering of wood, told
of an irresistible onslaught on the corral fence.

"Chus—chus!" exclaimed Piute.

Wolf, not heeding Mescal's cry, flashed like lightning under the cedars.
The rush of the sheep, pattering across the corral was succeeded by an
uproar.