The Heritage of the Desert: A Novel, Zane Grey [books for 9th graders .txt] 📗

out a crowd of men at a rude bar. Abe went to the door and called out: “Hey, Snap, your dad wants you. Holderness, here's August Naab.”

A man staggered up the few steps leading to the store and swayed in. His long face had a hawkish cast, and it was gray, not with age, but with the sage-gray of the desert. His eyes were of the same hue, cold yet burning with little fiery flecks in their depths. He appeared short of stature because of a curvature of the spine, but straightened up he would have been tall. He wore a blue flannel shirt, and blue overalls; round his lean hips was a belt holding two Colt's revolvers, their heavy, dark butts projecting outward, and he had on high boots with long, cruel spurs.

“Howdy, father?” he said.

“I'm packing to-day,” returned August Naab. “We ride out to-morrow. I need your help.”

“All-l right. When I get my pinto from Larsen.”

“Never mind Larsen. If he got the better of you let the matter drop.”

“Jeff got my pinto for a mustang with three legs. If I hadn't been drunk I'd never have traded. So I'm looking for Jeff.”

He bit out the last words with a peculiar snap of his long teeth, a circumstance which caused Hare instantly to associate the savage clicking with the name he had heard given this man. August Naab looked at him with gloomy eyes and stern shut mouth, an expression of righteous anger, helplessness and grief combined, the look of a man to whom obstacles had been nothing, at last confronted with crowning defeat. Hare realized that this son was Naab's first-born, best-loved, a thorn in his side, a black sheep.

“Say, father, is that the spy you found on the trail?” Snap's pale eyes gleamed on Hare and the little flames seemed to darken and leap.

“This is John Hare, the young man I found. But he's not a spy.”

“You can't make any one believe that. He's down as a spy. Dene's spy! His name's gone over the ranges as a counter of unbranded stock. Dene has named him and Dene has marked him. Don't take him home, as you've taken so many sick and hunted men before. What's the good of it? You never made a Mormon of one of them yet. Don't take him—unless you want another grave for your cemetery. Ha! Ha!”

Hare recoiled with a shock. Snap Naab swayed to the door, and stepped down, all the time with his face over his shoulder, his baleful glance on Hare; then the blue haze swallowed him.

The several loungers went out; August engaged the storekeeper in conversation, introducing Hare and explaining their wants. They inspected the various needs of a range-rider, selecting, in the end, not the few suggested by Hare, but the many chosen by Naab. The last purchase was the rifle Naab had talked about. It was a beautiful weapon, finely polished and carved, entirely out of place among the plain coarse-sighted and coarse-stocked guns in the rack.

“Never had a chance to sell it,” said Abe. “Too long and heavy for the riders. I'll let it go cheap, half price, and the cartridges also, two thousand.”

“Taken,” replied Naab, quickly, with a satisfaction which showed he liked a bargain.

“August, you must be going to shoot some?” queried Abe. “Something bigger than rabbits and coyotes. Its about time—even if you are an Elder. We Mormons must—” he broke off, continuing in a low tone: “Here's Holderness now.”

Hare wheeled with the interest that had gathered with the reiteration of this man's name. A new-comer stooped to get in the door. He out-topped even Naab in height, and was a superb blond-bearded man, striding with the spring of a mountaineer.

“Good-day to you, Naab,” he said. “Is this the young fellow you picked up?”

“Yes. Jack Hare,” rejoined Naab.

“Well, Hare, I'm Holderness. You'll recall my name. You were sent to Lund by men interested in my ranges. I expected to see you in Lund, but couldn't get over.”

Hare met the proffered hand with his own, and as he had recoiled from Snap Naab so now he received another shock, different indeed but impelling in its power, instinctive of some great portent. Hare was impressed by an indefinable subtlety, a nameless distrust, as colorless as the clear penetrating amber lightness of the eyes that bent upon him.

“Holderness, will you right the story about Hare?” inquired Naab.

“You mean about his being a spy? Well, Naab, the truth is that was his job. I advised against sending a man down here for that sort of work. It won't do. These Mormons will steal each other's cattle, and they've got to get rid of them; so they won't have a man taking account of stock, brands, and all that. If the Mormons would stand for it the rustlers wouldn't. I'll take Hare out to the ranch and give him work, if he wants. But he'd do best to leave Utah.”

“Thank you, no,” replied Hare, decidedly.

“He's going with me,” said August Naab.

Holderness accepted this with an almost imperceptible nod, and he swept Hare with eyes that searched and probed for latent possibilities. It was the keen intelligence of a man who knew what development meant on the desert; not in any sense an interest in the young man at present. Then he turned his back.

Hare, feeling that Holderness wished to talk with Naab, walked to the counter, and began assorting his purchases, but he could not help hearing what was said.

“Lungs bad?” queried Holderness.

“One of them,” replied Naab.

“He's all in. Better send him out of the country. He's got the name of Dene's spy and he'll never get another on this desert. Dene will kill him. This isn't good judgment, Naab, to take him with you. Even your friends don't like it, and it means trouble for you.”

“We've settled it,” said Naab, coldly.

“Well, remember, I've warned you. I've tried to be friendly with you, Naab, but you won't have it. Anyway, I've wanted to see you lately to find out how we stand.”

“What do you mean?”

“How we stand on several things—to begin with, there Mescal.”

“You asked me several times for Mescal, and I said no.”

“But I never said I'd marry her. Now I want her, and I will marry her.”

“No,” rejoined Naab, adding brevity to his coldness.

“Why not?” demanded Holderness. “Oh, well, I can't take that as an insult. I know there's not enough money in Utah to get a girl away from a Mormon.... About the offer for the water-rights—how do we stand? I'll give you ten thousand dollars for the rights to Seeping Springs and Silver Cup.”

“Ten thousand!” ejaculated Naab.