He dreamed of himself waiting in serene confidence
for some unknown thing to pass. He awakened late in the morning and
found the house hushed. The day wore on in a repose unstirred by breeze
and sound, in accord with the mourning of August Naab. At noon a solemn
procession wended its slow course to the shadow of the red cliff, and as
solemnly returned.
Then a long-drawn piercing Indian whoop broke the midday hush. It
heralded the approach of the Navajos. In single-file they rode up the
lane, and when the falcon-eyed Eschtah dismounted before his white
friend, the line of his warriors still turned the corner of the red wall.
Next to the chieftain rode Scarbreast, the grim war-lord of the Navajos.
His followers trailed into the grove. Their sinewy bronze bodies, almost
naked, glistened wet from the river. Full a hundred strong were they, a
silent, lean-limbed desert troop.
"The White Prophet's fires burned bright," said the chieftain. "Eschtah
is here."
"The Navajo is a friend," replied Naab. "The white man needs counsel and
help. He has fallen upon evil days."
"Eschtah sees war in the eyes of his friend.
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