The wildness of
it all, the necessity of peril and calm acceptance of it, stirred within
Hare the call, the awakening, the spirit of the desert.
August Naab's stentorian voice rolled out over the river. "Ho! Dave--the
yellow pinto--pull him loose--George, back this way--there's a pack
slipping--down now, downstream, turn that straggler in--Dave, in that
tangle--quick! There's a boy drowning--his foot's caught--he's been
kicked-- Hurry! Hurry!-- pull him in the boat-- There's a pony under--
Too late, George, let that one go--let him go, I tell you!"
So the crossing of the Navajos proceeded, never an instant free from
danger in that churning current. The mustangs and ponies floundered
somewhat on the sand-bar and then parted the willows and appeared on a
trail skirting the red wall. Dave Naab moored his boat on that side of
the river, and returned with George.
"We'll look over my farm," said August, as they retraced their steps. He
led Hare through fields of alfalfa, in all stages of growth, explaining
that it yielded six crops a year. Into one ten-acre lot pigs and cows
had been turned to feed at will.
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