Free Zane Grey by The Heritage of the Desert Page A

pierced his lungs. The thought following was
as sharp as the pain. Pneumonia! What he had long expected! He sank
against the cedar, overcome by the shock. But he rallied presently, for
with the reestablishment of the old settled bitterness, which had been
forgotten in the interest of his situation, he remembered that he had
given up hope. Still, he could not get back at once to his former
resignation. He hated to acknowledge that the wildness of this desert
canyon country, and the spirit it sought to instil in him, had wakened a
desire to live. For it meant only more to give up. And after one short
instant of battle he was himself again. He put his hand under his
flannel shirt and felt of the soreness of his lungs. He found it not at
the apex of the right lung, always the one sensitive spot, but all
through his breast. Little panting breaths did not hurt; but the deep
inhalation, which alone satisfied him filled his whole chest with
thousands of pricking needles. In the depth of his breast was a hollow
that burned.
    When he had pulled on his boots and coat, and had washed himself in the
runway of the spring, his hands were so numb with cold they refused to
hold his comb and brush; and he presented himself at the roaring fire
half-frozen, dishevelled, trembling, but cheerful. He would not tell
Naab. If he had to die to-day, to-morrow or next week, he would lie down
under a cedar and die; he could not whine about it to this man.
    "Up with the sun!" was Naab's greeting. His cheerfulness was as
impelling as his splendid virility. Following the wave of his hand Hare
saw the sun, a pale-pink globe through a misty blue, rising between the
golden crags of the eastern wall.
    Mescal had a shy "good-morning" for him, and Piute a broad smile, and
familiar "how-do"; the peon slave, who had finished breakfast and was
about to depart, moved his lips in friendly greeting that had no sound.
    "Did you hear the coyotes last night?" inquired August. "No! Well, of all
the choruses I ever heard. There must be a thousand on the bench. Jack,
I wish I could spare the time to stay up here with you and shoot some.
You'll have practice with the rifle, but don't neglect the Colt.
Practice particularly the draw I taught you. Piute has a carbine, and he
shoots at the coyotes, but who ever saw an Indian that could hit
anything?"
    "Damn—gun no good!" growled Piute, who evidently understood English
pretty well. Naab laughed, and while Hare ate breakfast he talked of the
sheep. The flock he had numbered three thousand. They were a goodly
part of them Navajo stock: small, hardy sheep that could live on anything
but cactus, and needed little water. This flock had grown from a small
number to its present size in a few years. Being remarkably free from
the diseases and pests which retard increase in low countries, the sheep
had multiplied almost one for one for every year. But for the ravages of
wild beasts Naab believed he could raise a flock of many thousands and in
a brief time be rich in sheep alone. In the winter he drove them down
into the oasis; the other seasons he herded them on the high ranges where
the cattle could not climb. There was grass enough on this plateau for a
million sheep. After the spring thaw in early March, occasional snows
fell till the end of May, and frost hung on until early summer; then the
July rains made the plateau a garden.
    "Get the forty-four," concluded Naab, "and we'll go out and break it in."
    With the long rifle in the hollow of his arm Jack forgot that he was a
sick man. When he came within gunshot of the flock the smell of sheep
effectually smothered the keen, tasty odor of black sage and juniper.
Sheep ranged everywhere under the low cedars. They browsed with noses in
the frost, and from all around came the tinkle of tiny bells on the
curly-horned rams, and an endless variety of bleats.
    "They're spread now," said August. "Mescal drives them on every little
while and Piute goes ahead to pick out the best browse. Watch