The Heritage of the Desert

by Zane Grey
I

THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
"But the man's almost dead."

The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life. He opened his
eyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that

had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood a
sombre group of men.

"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. "He's the
fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He's all

but dead. Dene's outlaws are after him. Don't cross Dene."
The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a

follower of Cromwell.
"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene or

any other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God."
"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly. "You would

cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down
from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I've suffered

enough at the hands of Dene."
The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving Hare

that he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there the
strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few

days with the stern reality of the present.
"Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, like

one reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land to
worship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prospered

with the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, all
hostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever fail

to succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perils
compared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turn

from mercy because of a cut-throatoutlaw? I like not the sign of the
times, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God."

"August Naab, I am a Mormon too," returned Cole, "but my hands are
stained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes and

your cattle. Yes, I know. You're strong, stronger than any of us, far
off in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons, guarded

by your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on you. He'll
ignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will steal

cattle under your very eyes. Don't make them enemies."
"I can't pass by this helpless man," rolled out August Naab's sonorous

voice.
Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointedwestward."

There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not ten
miles away. See them?"

The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to the
west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched die waste, and followed the

red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional in its
craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust rose

above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.
"See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my

prophecy," cried Cole, fanatically. "The red sunset--the sign of the
times--blood!"

A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme
west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of

striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in
the desert's sunsetcrimson. The largest projected from behind the dark

cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round,
floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with

inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his
companions as they stared.

Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the
tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the

sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up,
to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.

"That may be God's will," said August Naab. "So be it. Martin Cole,
take your men and go."

There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups,
the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush of

fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.
A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your--

generous act--can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left
me--seeing you have women in your party."

"Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here--drink."
He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a flask

to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons. We've an
hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-dune

we'll have longer."
Hare's flagging senses rallied, and he forgot himself in wonder. While

the bustle went on, unhitching of wagon-teams, hobbling and feeding of
horses, unpacking of camp-supplies, Naab appeared to be lost in deep

meditation or prayer. Not once did he glance backward over the trail on
which peril was fast approaching. His gaze was fastened on a ridge to

the east where desert line, fringed by stunted cedars, met the pale-blue
sky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length he

turned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron pots
in position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing the

evening meal.
A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the sand,

fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night fell;
one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone of

blacknesssurrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry Rhine,
the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.

"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful of
grease-wood.

Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young' yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years.

Hare could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel
eye and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the

others young, were of comely, serious aspect.
"Mescal," called the Mormon.

A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.

August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family bowed
their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food laid on

the ground.
"Lord, we kneel in humblethanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.

Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless this
stranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, O

Lord--Amen."
Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable to

control a painfulbinding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he had
learned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of this

austere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in its
place stirred something warm and living. He was glad, for if he had to

die, as he believed, either from the deed of evil men, or from this last
struggle of his wasted body, he did not want to die in bitterness. That

simple prayer recalled the home he had long since left in Connecticut,
and the time when he used to tease his sister and anger his father and

hurt his mother while grace was being said at the breakfast-table. Now
he was alone in the world, sick and dependent upon the kindness of these

strangers. But they were really friends--it was a wonderful thought.
"Mescal, wait on the stranger," said August Naab, and the girl knelt

beside him, tendering meat and drink. His nerveless fingers refused to
hold the cup, and she put it to his lips while he drank. Hot coffee

revived him; he ate and grew stronger, and readily began to talk when the
Mormon asked for his story.

"There isn't much to tell. My name is Hare. I am twenty-four. My