"Eschtah's hundred summers smile in the face of youth. The arm of the
White Chief is strong; the kiss of the Flower of the Desert is sweet.
Let Mescal and Jack rest their heads on one pillow, and sleep under the
trees, and chant when the dawn brightens in the east. Out of his wise
years the Navajo bids them love while they may. Daughter of my race,
take the blessing of the Navajo."
Jack lifted Mescal upon Black Bolly and mounted Silvermane. Piute
grinned till he shook his earrings and started the pack burros toward the
plateau trail. Wolf pattered on before, turning his white head,
impatient of delay. Amid tears and waving of hands and cheers they began
the zigzag ascent.
When they reached the old camp on the plateau the sun was setting behind
the Painted Desert. With hands closely interwoven they watched the color
fade and the mustering of purple shadows.
Twilight fell. Piute raked the red coals from the glowing centre of the
camp-fire. Wolf crouched all his long white length, his sharp nose on
his paws, watching Mescal. Hare watched her, too. The night shone in
her eyes, the light of the fire, the old brooding mystic desert-spirit,
and something more.
Pages:
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393