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The Heritage of the Desert-Part24_Zane Gray(1872-1939)_English Literature(文学名著)-第2页

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"Wolf, old fellow!" cried Hare. "Where's Mescal? Wolf, where is she?"

He threw his arms around the dog. Wolfwhined, licked Hare's face, and



breaking away, ran up the sandy trail, and back again. But he barked no

more; he waited to see if Hare was following.



"All right, Wolf--coming." Never had Hare saddled so speedily, nor

mounted so quickly. He sent Silvermane into the willow-skirted trail



close behind the dog, up on the rocky bench, and then under the bulging

wall. Wolf reached the level between the canyon and Echo Cliffs, and



then started straight west toward the Painted Desert. He trotted a few

rods and turned to see if the man was coming.



Doubt, fear, uncertainty ceased for Hare. With the first blast of

dust-scented air in his face he knew Wolf was leading him to Mescal. He



knew that the cry he had heard in his dream was hers, that the old

mysterious promise of the desert had at last begun its fulfilment. He



gave one sharp exultant answer to that call. The horizon, ever-widening,

lay before him, and the treeless plains, the sun-scorched slopes, the



sandy stretches, the massed blocks of black mesas, all seemed to welcome

him; his soul sang within him.



For Mescal was there. Far away she must be, a mere grain of sand in all

that world of drifting sands, perhaps ill, perhaps hurt, but alive,



waiting for him, calling for him, crying out with a voice that no

distance could silence. He did not see the sharp peaks as pitiless



barriers, nor the mesas and domes as black-faced death, nor the

moisture-drinking sands as life-sucking foes to plant and beast and man.



That painted wonderland had sheltered Mescal for a year. He had loved it

for its color, its change, its secrecy; he loved it now because it had



not been a grave for Mescal, but a home. Therefore he laughed at the

deceiving yellow distances in the foreground of glistening mesas, at the



deceiving purple distances of the far-offhorizon. The wind blew a song

in his ears; the dry desert odors were fragrance in his nostrils; the



sand tasted sweet between his teeth, and the quivering heat-waves,

veiling the desert in transparent haze, framed beautiful pictures for his



eyes.

Wolf kept to the fore for some thirty paces, and though he had ceased to



stop, he stir; looked back to see if the horse and man were following.

Hare had noted the dog occasionally in the first hours of travel, but he



had given his eyes mostly to the broken line of sky and desert in the

west, to the receding contour of Echo Cliffs, to the spread and break of



the desert near at hand. Here and there life showed itself in a gaunt

coyote sneaking into the cactus, or a horned toad huddling down in the



dust, or a jewel-eyed lizard sunning himself upon a stone. It was only

when his excited fancy had cooled that Hare came to look closely at Wolf.



But for the dog's color he could not have been distinguished from a real

wolf. His head and ears and tad; drooped, and he was lame in his right



front paw.

Hare halted in the shade of a stone, dismounted and called the dog to



him. Wolf returned without quickness, without eagerness, without any of

the old-timefriendliness of shepherding days. His eyes were sad and



strange. Hare felt a sudden foreboding, but rejected it with passionate

force. Yet a chill remained. Lifting Wolf's paw he discovered that the



ball of the foot was worn through; whereupon he called into service a

piece of buckskin, and fashioning a rude moccasin he tied it round the



foot. Wolf licked his hand, but there was no change in the sad light of

his eyes. He turned toward the west as if anxious to be off.



"All right, old fellow," said Hare, "only go slow. From the look of that

foot I think you've turned back on a long trail."



Again they faced the west, dog leading, man following, and addressed

themselves to a gradualascent. When it had been surmounted Hare



realized that his ride so far had brought him only through an anteroom;

the real portal now stood open to the Painted Desert. The immensity of



the thing seemed to reach up to him with a thousand lines, ridges,

canyons, all ascending out of a purple gulf. The arms of the desert



enveloped him, a chill beneath their warmth.

As he descended into the valley, keeping close to Wolf, he marked a



straight course in line with a volcanic spur. He was surprised when the

dog, though continually threading jumbles of rock, heading canyons,



crossing deep washes, and going round obstructions, always veered back to

this bearing as true as a compass-needle to its magnet.



Hare felt the air growing warmer and closer as he continued the descent.

By mid-afternoon, when he had travelled perhaps thirty miles, he was



moist from head to foot, and Silvermane's coat was wet. Looking backward

Hare had a blank feeling of loss; the sweeping line of Echo Cliffs had



retreated behind the horizon. There was no familiar landmark left.

Sunset brought him to a standstill, as much from its sudden glorious



gathering of brilliant crimsons splashed with gold, as from its warning




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