uncommunicative and sleepy, strolled along the rim of the cliff, as he
had been wont to do in the sheep-herding days. He could scarcely

dissociate them from the present, for the bitter-sweet smell of tree and
bush, the almost inaudible sigh of breeze, the opening and shutting of

the great white stars in the blue dome, the silence, the sense of the
invisible void beneath him--all were thought-provoking parts of that past

of which nothing could ever be forgotten. And it was a silence which
brought much to the ear that could hear. It was a silence penetrated by

faint and distant sounds, by mourning wolf, or moan of wind in a
splintered crag. Weird and low, an inarticulate voice, it wailed up from

the desert, winding along the hollow trail, freeing itself in the wide
air, and dying away. He had often heard the scream of lion and cry of

wildcat, but this was the strange sound of which August Naab had told
him, the mysterious call of canyon and desert night.

Daylight showed Echo Cliffs to be of vastly greater range than the sister
plateau across the river. The roll of cedar level, the heave of craggy

ridge, the dip of white-sage valley gave this side a diversity widely
differing from the two steps of the Vermillion tableland. August Naab

followed a trail leading back toward the river. For the most part thick
cedars hid the surroundings from Hare's view; occasionally, however, he

had a backwardglimpse from a high point, or a wide prospect below, where
the trail overlooked an oval hemmed-in valley.

About midday August Naab brushed through a thicket, and came abruptly on
a declivity. He turned to his companion with a wave of his hand.

"The Navajo camp," he said. "Eschtah has lived there for many years.
It's the only permanent Navajo camp I know. These Indians are nomads.

Most of them live wherever the sheep lead them. This plateau ranges for
a hundred miles, farther than any white man knows, and everywhere, in the

valleys and green nooks, will be found Navajo hogans. That's why we may
never find Mescal."

Hare's gaze travelled down over the tips of cedar and crag to a pleasant
vale, dotted with round mound-like white-streaked hogans, from which lazy

floating columns of blue smoke curled upward. Mustangs and burros and
sheep browsed on the white patches of grass. Bright-red blankets blazed

on the cedar branches. There was slow colorful movement of Indians,
passing in and out of their homes. The scene brought irresistibly to

Hare the thought of summer, of long warm afternoons, of leisure that took
no stock of time.

On the way down the trail they encountered a flock of sheep driven by a
little Navajo boy on a brown burro. It was difficult to tell which was

the more surprised, the long-eared burro, which stood stock-still, or the
boy, who first kicked and pounded his shaggy steed, and then jumped off

and ran with black locks flying. Farther down Indian girls started up
from their tasks, and darted silently into the shade of the cedars.

August Naab whooped when he reached the valley, and Indian braves
appeared, to cluster round him, shake his hand and Hare's, and lead them

toward the centre of the encampment.
The hogans where these desert savages dwelt were all alike; only the

chief's was larger. From without it resembled a mound of clay with a few
white logs, half imbedded, shining against the brick red. August Naab

drew aside a blanket hanging over a door, and entered, beckoning his
companion to follow. Inured as Hare had become to the smell and smart of

wood-smoke, for a moment he could not see, or scarcely breathe, so thick
was the atmosphere. A fire, the size of which attested the desert

Indian's love of warmth, blazed in the middle of the hogan, and sent part
of its smoke upward through a round hole in the roof. Eschtah, with

blanket over his shoulders, his lean black head bent, sat near the fire.
He noted the entrance of his visitors, but immediately resumed his

meditative posture, and appeared to be unaware of their presence.
Hare followed August's example, sitting down and speaking no word. His

eyes, however, roved discreetly to and fro. Eschtah's three wives
presented great differences in age and appearance. The eldest was a

wrinkled, parchment-skinned old hag who sat sightless before the fire;
the next was a solid square squaw, employed in the task of combing a

naked boy's hair with a comb made of stiff thin roots tied tightly in a
round bunch. Judging from the youngster's actions and grimaces, this

combing process was not a pleasant one. The third wife, much younger,
had a comely face, and long braids of black hair, of which, evidently,

she was proud. She leaned on her knees over a flat slab of rock, and
holding in her hands a long oval stone, she rolled and mashed corn into

meal. There were young braves, handsome in their bronze-skinned way,
with bands binding their straight thick hair, silver rings in their ears,

silver bracelets on their wrists, silver buttons on their moccasins.
There were girls who looked up from their blanket-weaving with shy

curiosity, and then turned to their frames strung with long threads.
Under their nimble fingers the wool-carrying needles slipped in and out,

and the colored stripes grew apace. Then there were younger boys and
girls, all bright-eyed and curious; and babies sleeping on blankets.

Where the walls and ceiling were not covered with buckskin garments,
weapons and blankets, Hare saw the white wood-ribs of the hogan

structure. It was a work of art, this circular house of forked logs and
branches, interwoven into a dome, arched and strong, and all covered and

cemented with clay.
At a touch of August's hand Hare turned to the old chief; and awaited his

speech. It came with the uplifting of Eschtah's head, and the offering
of his hand in the white man's salute. August's replies were slow and

labored; he could not speak the Navajo language fluently, but he
understood it.

"The White Prophet is welcome," was the chief's greeting. "Does he come
for sheep or braves or to honor the Navajo in his home?"

"Eschtah, he see' s the Flower of the Desert," replied August Naab.
"Mescal has left him. Her trail leads to the bitter waters under the

cliff, and then is as a bird's."
"Eschtah has waited, yet Mescal has not come to him."

"She has not been here?"
"Mescal's shadow has not gladdened the Navajo's door."

"She has climbed the crags or wandered into the canyons. The white
father loves her; he must find her."

"Eschtah's braves and mustangs are for his friend's use. The Navajo will
find her if she is not as the grain of drifting sand. But is the White

Prophet wise in his years? Let the Flower of the Desert take root in the
soil of her forefathers."

"Eschtah's wisdom is great, but he thinks only of Indian blood. Mescal
is half white, and her ways have been the ways of the white man. Nor

does Eschtah think of the white man's love."
"The desert has called. Where is the White Prophet's vision? White

blood and red blood will not mix. The Indian's blood pales in the white
man's stream; or it burns red for the sun and the waste and the wild.

Eschtah's forefathers, sleeping here in the silence, have called the
Desert Flower."

"It is true. But the white man is bound; he cannot be as the Indian; he
does not content himself with life as it is; he hopes and prays for

change; he believes in the progress of his race on earth. Therefore
Eschtah's white friend smelts Mescal; he has brought her up as his own;

he wants to take her home, to love her better, to trust to the future."
"The white man's ways are white man's ways. Eschtah understands. He

remembers his daughter lying here. He closed her dead eyes and sent word
to his white friend. He named this child for the flower that blows in

the wind of silent places. Eschtah gave his granddaughter to his friend.
She has been the bond between them. Now she is flown and the White

Father seeks the Navajo. Let him command. Eschtah has spoken."
Eschtah pressed into Naab's service a band of young braves, under the

guidance of several warriors who knew every trail of the range, every
waterhole, every cranny where even a wolf might hide. They swept the

river-end of the plateau, and workingwestward, scoured the levels,
ridges, valleys, climbed to the peaks, and sent their Indian dogs into

the thickets and caves. From Eschtah's encampment westward the hogans
diminished in number till only one here and there was discovered, hidden

under a yellow wall, or amid a clump of cedars. All the Indians met with
were sternly questioned by the chiefs, their dwellings were searched, and