The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel by Zane Grey (top novels to read TXT) 📕

One by one they complied. The sixth rustler in the line, a tall fellow, completely masked, refused to do as he was bidden. Twice Hare spoke. The rustler twisted his bound hands under his coat.

“Let's see them,” said Hare, quickly. He grasped the fellow's arm and received a violent push that almost knocked him over. Grappling with the rustler, he pulled up the bound hands, in spite of fierce resistance, and there were the long fingers, the sharp wart, the laced wristband. “Here's my man!” he said.

“No,” hoarsely mumbled the rustler. The perspiration ran down his corded neck; his breast heaved convulsively.

“You fool!” cried Hare, dumfounded and resentful. “I recognized you. Would you rather hang than live? What's your secret?”

He snatched off the black mask. The Bishop's eldest son stood revealed.

“Good God!” cried Hare, recoiling from that convulsed face.

“Brother! Oh! I feared this,” groaned John Caldwell.

The rustlers broke out into curses and harsh laughter.

“—- —- you Mormons! See him! Paul Caldwell! Son of a Bishop! Thought he was shepherdin' sheep?”

“D—n you, Hare!” shouted the guilty Mormon, in passionate fury and shame. “Why didn't you hang me? Why didn't you bury me unknown?”

“Caldwell! I can't believe it,” cried Hare, slowly coming to himself. “But you don't hang. Here, come out of the crowd. Make way, men!”

The silent crowd of Mormons with lowered and averted eyes made passage for Hare and Caldwell. Then cold, stern voices in sharp questions and orders went on with the grim trial. Leading the bowed and stricken Mormon, Hare drew off to the side of the town-hall and turned his back upon the crowd. The constant trampling of many feet, the harsh medley of many voices swelled into one dreadful sound. It passed away, and a long hush followed. But this in turn was suddenly broken by an outcry:

“The Navajos! The Navajos!”

Hare thrilled at that cry and his glance turned to the eastern end of the village road where a column of mounted Indians, four abreast, was riding toward the square.

“Naab and his Indians,” shouted Hare. “Naab and his Indians! No fear!” His call was timely, for the aroused Mormons, ignorant of Naab's pursuit, fearful of hostile Navajos, were handling their guns ominously.

But there came a cry of recognition—“August Naab!”

Onward came the band, Naab in the lead on his spotted roan. The mustangs were spent and lashed with foam. Naab reined in his charger and the keen-eyed Navajos closed in behind him. The old Mormon's eagle glance passed over the dark forms dangling from the cottonwoods to the files of waiting men.

“Where is he?”

“There!” answered John Caldwell, pointing to the body of Holderness.

“Who robbed me of my vengeance? Who killed the rustler?” Naab's stentorian voice rolled over the listening multitude. In it was a hunger of thwarted hate that held men mute. He bent a downward gaze at the dead Holderness as if to make sure of the ghastly reality. Then he seemed to rise in his saddle, and his broad chest to expand. “I know—I saw it all—blind I was not to believe my own eyes! Where is he? Where is Hare?”

Some one pointed Hare out. Naab swung from his saddle and scattered the men before him as if they had been sheep. His shaggy gray head and massive shoulders towered above the tallest there.

Hare felt again a cold sense of fear. He grew weak in all his being. He reeled when the gray shaggy giant laid a huge hand on his shoulder and with one pull dragged him close. Was this his kind Mormon benefactor, this man with the awful eyes?

“You killed Holderness?” roared Naab.

“Yes,” whispered Hare.

“You heard me say I'd go alone? You forestalled me? You took upon yourself my work?... Speak.”

“I—did.”

“By what right?”

“My debt—duty—your family—Dave!”

“Boy! Boy! You've robbed me.” Naab waved his arm from the gaping crowd to the swinging rustlers. “You've led these white-livered Mormons to do my work. How can I avenge my sons—seven sons?”

His was the rage of the old desert-lion. He loosed Hare and strode in magnificent wrath over Holderness and raised his brawny fists.

“Eighteen years I prayed for wicked men,” he rolled out. “One by one I buried my sons. I gave my springs and my cattle. Then I yielded to the lust for blood. I renounced my religion. I paid my soul to everlasting hell for the life of my foe. But he's dead! Killed by a wild boy! I sold myself to the devil for nothing!”

August Naab raved out his unnatural rage amid awed silence. His revolt was the flood of years undammed at the last. The ferocity of the desert spirit spoke silently in the hanging rustlers, in the ruthlessness of the vigilantes who had destroyed them, but it spoke truest in the sonorous roll of the old Mormon's wrath.

“August, young Hare saved two of the rustlers,” spoke up an old friend, hoping to divert the angry flood. “Paul Caldwell there, he was one of them. The other's gone.”

Naab loomed over him. “What!” he roared. His friend edged away, repeating his words and jerking his thumb backward toward the Bishop's son.

“Judas Iscariot!” thundered Naab. “False to thyself, thy kin, and thy God! Thrice traitor!... Why didn't you get yourself killed? ... Why are you left? Ah-h! for me—a rustler for me to kill—with my own hands!—A rope there—a rope!”

“I wanted them to hang me,” hoarsely cried Caldwell, writhing in Naab's grasp.

Hare threw all his weight and strength upon the Mormon's iron arm. “Naab! Naab! For God's sake, hear! He saved Mescal. This man, thief, traitor, false Mormon—whatever he is—he saved Mescal.”

August Naab's eyes were bloodshot. One shake of his great body flung Hare off. He dragged Paul Caldwell across the grass toward the cottonwood as easily as if he were handling an empty grain-sack.

Hare suddenly darted after him. “August! August!—look! look!” he cried. He pointed a shaking finger down the square. The old Bishop came tottering over the grass, leaning on his cane, shading his eyes with his hand. “August. See, the Bishop's coming. Paul's father! Do you hear?”

Hare's appeal pierced Naab's frenzied brain. The Mormon Elder saw his old Bishop pause and stare at the dark shapes suspended from the cottonwoods and hold up his hands in horror.

Naab loosed his hold. His frame seemed wrenched as though by the passing of an evil spirit, and the reaction left his face transfigured.

“Paul, it's your father, the Bishop,” he said, brokenly. “Be a man. He must never know.” Naab spread wide his arms to the