Part 37

“Did you make it for me, Mescal?” he finally asked. “How good of you! I'll keep it always.”

“Put it on now--let me tie it--there!”

“But, child. Suppose he--they saw it?”

“I don't care who sees it.”

She met him with clear, level eyes. Her curt, crisp speech was full of meaning. He looked long at her, with a yearning denied for many a day. Her face was the same, yet wonderfully changed; the same in line and color, but different in soul and spirit. The old sombre shadow lay deep in the eyes, but to it had been added gleam of will and reflection of thought. The whole face had been refined and transformed.

“Mescal! What's happened? You're not the same. You seem almost happy. Have you--has he--given you up?”

“Don't you know Mormons better than that? The thing is the same--so far as they're concerned.”

“But Mescal--are you going to marry him? For God's sake, tell me.”

“Never.” It was a woman's word, instant, inflexible, desperate. With a deep breath Hare realized where the girl had changed.

“Still you're promised, pledged to him! How'll you get out of it?”

“I don't know how. But I'll cut out my tongue, and be dumb as my poor peon before I'll speak the word that'll make me Snap Naab's wife.”

There was a long silence. Mescal smoothed out Bolly's mane, and Hare gazed up at the walls with eyes that did not see them.

Presently he spoke. “I'm afraid for you. Snap watched us to-day at dinner.”

“He's jealous.”

“Suppose he sees this scarf?”

Mescal laughed defiantly. It was bewildering for Hare to hear her.

“He'll--Mescal, I may yet come to this.” Hare's laugh echoed Mescal's as he pointed to the enclosure under the wall, where the graves showed bare and rough.

Her warm color fled, but it flooded back, rich, mantling brow and cheek and neck.

“Snap Naab will never kill you,” she said impulsively.

“Mescal.”

She swiftly turned her face away as his hand closed on hers.

“Mescal, do you love me?”

The trembling of her fingers and the heaving of her bosom lent his hope conviction. “Mescal,” he went on, “these past months have been years, years of toiling, thinking, changing, but always loving. I'm not the man you knew. I'm wild-- I'm starved for a sight of you. I love you! Mescal, my desert flower!”

She raised her free hand to his shoulder and swayed toward him. He held her a moment, clasped tight, and then released her.

“I'm quite mad!” he exclaimed, in a passion of self-reproach. “What a risk I'm putting on you! But I couldn't help it. Look at me-- Just once- -please-- Mescal, just one look.... Now go.”

The drama of the succeeding days was of absorbing interest. Hare had liberty; there was little work for him to do save to care for Silvermane. He tried to hunt foxes in the caves and clefts; he rode up and down the broad space under the walls; he sought the open desert only to be driven in by the bitter, biting winds. Then he would return to the big living-room of the Naabs and sit before the burning logs. This spacious room was warm, light, pleasant, and was used by every one in leisure hours. Mescal spent most of her time there. She was engaged upon a new frock of buckskin, and over this she bent with her needle and beads. When there was a chance Hare talked with her, speaking one language with his tongue, a far different one with his eyes. When she was not present he looked into the glowing red fire and dreamed of her.

In the evenings when Snap came in to his wooing and drew Mescal into a corner, Hare watched with covert glance and smouldering jealousy. Somehow he had come to see all things and all people in the desert glass, and his symbol for Snap Naab was the desert-hawk. Snap's eyes were as wild and piercing as those of a hawk; his nose and mouth were as the beak of a hawk; his hands resembled the claws of a hawk; and the spurs he wore, always bloody, were still more significant of his ruthless nature. Then Snap's courting of the girl, the cool assurance, the unhastening ease, were like the slow rise, the sail, and the poise of a desert-hawk before the downward lightning-swift swoop on his quarry.

It was intolerable for Hare to sit there in the evenings, to try to play with the children who loved him, to talk to August Naab when his eye seemed ever drawn to the quiet couple in the corner, and his ear was unconsciously strained to catch a passing word. That hour was a miserable one for him, yet he could not bring himself to leave the room. He never saw Snap touch her; he never heard Mescal's voice; he believed that she spoke very little. When the hour was over and Mescal rose to pass to her room, then his doubt, his fear, his misery, were as though they had never been, for as Mescal said good-night she would give him one look, swift as a flash, and in it were womanliness and purity, and something beyond his comprehension. Her Indian serenity and mysticism veiled yet suggested some secret, some power by which she might yet escape the iron band of this Mormon rule. Hare could not fathom it. In that good-night glance was a meaning for him alone, if meaning ever shone in woman's eyes, and it said: “I will be true to you and to myself!”