Red Mesa

SID whirled swiftly, after Hano had gone. The slight swaying of a medicine skin—the pelt of an albino big-horn—told him where the opening to the tunnel was. Lifting it aside, a jagged hole in the lava showed, and from below came up a faint tinge of sulphur smell. Sid thought first of going down into the tunnel and hiding in it somewhere, watching his chance to escape. Then he decided against it. He ought to give Hano all the time he could. That both of them had disappeared would be immediately noticed in the village. He looked around, thinking rapidly about what to do next. A bundle of plumed prayer sticks among the ritual appurtenances of the lodge caught his eye and it gave him the idea he was searching for. Going outside the lodge and closing its door, he secured it with a prayer stick. That sign would signify that the lodge was closed to all but medicine men and would keep out any casual stroller.

It was now nearly sunset. Sid sought out Honanta again but he was not at his lodge. Sounds of busy life came from the grass huts. Fresh meat of the ram was being prepared for an evening feast; more of it was being hung on drying poles to cure in the sun. A knot of young braves was playing the hoop game, rolling the hoop swiftly along a path and striving to pierce it with lances as it sped.

Sid watched them awhile, a feeling of melancholy growing on him. These people were happy, free, and independent. Under Honanta’s leadership they were living life simply and nobly, as the early Indians did. To match it, you had to go back two hundred years to the time when religion was everything in an Indian’s life, when warfare was an incentive to chivalry similar to our own warfare of the middle ages; when there were no white men to set one tribe against another, to teach them to scalp one another by offering a bounty for the hair of a fellow red man, or to sell them whisky and weapons far more deadly than any they naturally used.

Sid felt himself playing traitor to his best instincts when he thought of what the coming of Scotty and Big John would mean to these people. Scotty had come to the Pinacate region to find the Red Mesa mine. Well he, Sid, had found it for him! But he had not dreamed to find it also the home of a happy and peaceful band of red men—that race with which Sid was becoming more and more in sympathy.

But now look what would happen! Scotty would claim the mine, stake it out, ask him and Big John to sign as witnesses, and then file the claim with the government. And then, with the publishing of that claim, would come the inevitable stampede to this region. White men, hundreds of them; ships, rails, ore cars, burros, rough and sweating white miners—a rabble that would sweep Honanta and his people away like chaff. It did Sid little good to tell himself that he had sent Hano to bring his friends so that they could defend Red Mesa against the Mexicans. That would be a mere incident in the march of progress. Vasquez and his guerrillas would surely come here, riding along the border from Nogales. They would find the pony tracks, climb the mountain and discover Red Mesa. After that, no doubt Vasquez would fight for it. But even if defeated and driven off, there was Scotty to be reckoned with, for his heart was set on this mine, his whole future depended on it. That he would insist on providing for these Indians, of course, would be his natural instincts for right and justice. But he would insist, too, on the mine being developed. Sid doubted whether it could be done, in the nature of his race, without first bringing about the destruction of these Apaches. Honanta would never give this place up without a fight for it against all comers.

Sid wished that his father could be here to counsel him. He had almost a conviction that he was really that officer who had saved Honanta’s life in Apache Cave so long ago. It would be just like him. That deed would give his father vast influence over the chief, and some way out of this tangle of perplexities would be found by the good old Colonel. Sid wished now that he had sent Hano direct to bring his father. The Colvin ranch was up in the Gila Cañon on the railroad not a hundred miles away. The name was already well known in Arizona, their station near the ranch being named “Colvin’s” on the main line. Hano could have reached the rails by a fast push out to Tacna, and then have taken the train to Colvin’s. That would bring the Colonel here in two days at most, for there was a railroad to Ajo Mines only fifty miles away from Pinacate.

But it was too late now. After-thought is mere aggravation! What would Hano really do, now that he was free? Sid asked himself. He confessed he didn’t know. We know nothing of the Indian mind and its workings. We really know nothing of the race nor where they came from. Not Semitic, surely, for, Phœnician Jew or Arab, the accumulation of vast stores of wealth is the dominant Semitic trait, and the Indian scorns wealth and miserliness alike.

Sid was convinced that they are of the same Aryan stock as ourselves. If so, his theory was that they must have migrated east from Asia at a far earlier period than our own ancestors’ westward migration, for we still have the Aryan word roots, while in America there are no less than three great Indian languages—Algonquin, Athapascan, Siouan—totally different, the peoples also as different in physical and moral characteristics as are our own Teutonic and Latin branches of the same Aryan stock.

We developed individualism as we migrated westward. The Indian developed it, too, in this great new land, but he retained one distinctive Asiatic trait—the impersonal ego—the sinking of self in the clan whose interests are always paramount to everything else.

Reasoning from that, Sid tried to conjecture what Hano’s motives would be. To keep all these whites, Mexicans and his own friends alike, away from Red Mesa, the home of his clan; to kill Ruler, the tracking dog, so that Sid could not be traced here, seemed to Sid what Hano would really do. He would act on that basis, Sid was sure. His own chance of rescue, then, was really very slight. His life was safe for twenty-four hours, no matter what the old men might decide in council. After that his fate really depended solely on the identity of his name with that Colvin of Apache Cave! But how to prove to Honanta that that man was Colonel Colvin himself? To claim it without proof would be taken by the Indians as a mere forlorn hope to save his own life. Hano could have brought that proof for him, given time enough; now it was too late. Sid gave it all up; there was really nothing to do but wait events.

The sun was setting as Sid finished his ruminations. The water pool already lay in shadow, the black bottom of its lava basin turning the deep blue-green of its waters to a mirror of shining black. A sharp shadow line was creeping in horizontal masses of dark maroon far up on the face of the east wall, every broken fissure and pinnacle of the west wall shadow etched on its high face. Sid kept one eye nervously on the door of the medicine lodge, wondering how it was all going to turn out. No one had visited it yet, but discovery of Hano’s escape was sure and would come soon.

As Sid waited and watched, Honanta came out of a sweat lodge near the borders of the tank. He was naked save for breech cloth and moccasins, and slowly he walked to the brink of the lava basin where it tumbled out between the high walls of Red Mesa. Like some magnificent bronze statue he stood for a time on the brink, facing the setting sun, his arms outstretched in silent prayer. Then an old man tottered out from the council lodge bearing a ceremonial pipe. Honanta took it from him and, after a few whiffs, held its bowl toward the setting sun. Again he dipped it reverently toward Mother Earth and the sunset ceremony was ended. Sid noted that he did not add the modern symbolism of offering the pipe to the four winds.

After him every brave in the tribe, down to the little boys of eight, stood and did the same thing, that act of reverence to the Earth and Sun, the most important of the creations of the Great Mystery, which ethnologists often stupidly report as sun worship, earth worship. But Sid knew that, like their nature worship, it was really reverencing the Great Mystery through His creations. He had long ago adopted that viewpoint as his own, and was about to share in the ceremony himself, claiming the privilege as an adopted Blackfoot, when a soft footfall along the path drew his attention.

The girl Nahla was approaching the medicine lodge! She bore food and water for her husband, the prisoner. Sid felt tingles of excitement running all through him as he rose and walked rapidly after her.

“Nahla!” he called, as soon as they were far enough away from the rest of the village to be alone.

The girl turned and faced him.

“Do not enter!” he said softly in Apache.

“Oh, have they killed him?” she almost shrieked. “Hai—I hate you!” Like a fury she faced the bewildered Sid. It was his first experience with women—the instant feminine jumping to conclusions, the fierce and unreasoning hate for the cause of her sorrows.

“No. He lives; but do not enter the lodge, I beg you. You must trust in me, Nahla!” said Sid earnestly.

The girl shrugged her shoulders scornfully. “Pah! And is my husband to go without food and drink!” she spat out. With a lithe, sudden dash she had reached the lodge door and put her hand on the plumed prayer stick that held it shut.

Sid leaped after her. “No!” he barked. “Listen, Nahla—Hano is gone! I freed him. I sent him. They do not know, yet.”

The girl turned about, suspicion burning in her black eyes. “You?” Rapidly anguish filled her whole expression, then anger. “You made him run away!” she accused. “You made him break his honor—you, white man with a serpent’s tongue!”

With a swift movement she withdrew the prayer stick and flung wide the door. Unmindful of Sid’s expostulations she stood for a moment looking inside. Then she turned and ran shrieking toward the huts. “Hano! My Hano! He is gone! He has broken his honor! The white man freed him!—Honanta! Honanta!” she cried, running along the path.

Sid looked after her helplessly. Honanta was stalking toward her as fast as his dignity would permit. They stopped and exchanged a few words. Sid braced himself for what was coming, hoping that his wits would save him this time.

Honanta came up to him, his face a dark thundercloud, angry lines seaming it. “What is this, white boy?” he demanded.

“I freed Hano, chief. I had a good reason for it. You must trust me,” replied Sid, as stoutly as he could in the face of that towering passion.

“Yes?” said Honanta, craftily, controlling himself. “Why?” He was speaking in Apache now, and so was Sid, the subterfuge that he did not understand it being abandoned by both.

“You shall learn, soon, chief. I am acting for the good of us all,” said Sid earnestly.

Honanta studied him awhile in silence. “My son, because your name is Col-vin I have persuaded my old men to spare your life. My heart tells me that you may be the son of that officer who spared my mother and me—whose name also was Colvin. In freeing Hano I believe that you meant well. But it is dark to me why my son, Hano, consented to run away! His honor required him to await the judgment of my old men, even if not a thong bound him.”

“He, too, did it for the sake of the tribe, Honanta,” declared Sid with profound conviction.

Honanta knitted his brows, puzzled. “My son,” said he gently, “is not the truth best? No—you do not lie!” he added hastily as a frown gathered in Sid’s face, “but you know more than we do. I must tell what you do know to my old men, for they are very wise and their decision is final. You have told me nothing that gray hairs can listen to, so far,” he concluded persuasively.

Sid reflected. Would it not be better to tell the whole truth now and trust in Honanta’s judgment? He decided to tell part of it anyhow, for Big John and Scotty might be led here by Ruler to-morrow, he felt, and he might as well explain them now.

“I sent Hano to bring my friends here,” he replied. “They have a tracking dog—a hound—and could trace me here in any event, so I wanted to avoid a fight. The dog would lead them to Red Mesa, chief.”

“And so you sent Hano!” laughed Honanta. “My son Hano would kill that dog, kill those friends of yours, too, sooner than permit them to reach our home! Did you not think of that?”

Sid attempted to show his surprise at this Indian point of view on his action, but the idea was not new to him and the chief saw it.

“Come! There is more back of it, yet, my son!” prompted Honanta. “The truth—and I will do what I can for you with the elders.”

“There’s a party of Mexicans coming along the border,” replied Sid desperately. “They will find our tracks and trace us all to this place. I felt that we needed my friends to help you defend it, Honanta. That’s the whole truth.”

“Ha!—No! There is more!” exclaimed Honanta, his choler rising. “Why are the Mexicanos coming? And why is your party down here? Do you think I do not know why? Somehow, the tale of our mine has gotten out! Don’t I know what white men will do to possess themselves of a mine? What won’t they do!” he exclaimed bitterly. “You are all our enemies!”

“Not I!” retorted Sid, stoutly. “I am an ethnologist—no miner! The study of your people is my lifework, chief. Sympathy for them has become my ruling passion. Since I came here, my one idea has been to preserve this place forever as your home. I’ll seal my friend’s lips forever about this mine——”

Sid stopped hastily, for he had made a slip that he had not intended. It did not escape Honanta, however.

“No! we shall do that!” he said grimly. “My son, you are an enemy to us. You cannot help yourself. But, because of him who saved my mother and you who represent him, I have vowed to give a Sun Dance to-morrow. You must be present at it, for you are the physical evidence of my deliverer. According to our laws of hospitality you have one sun of immunity among us. But to-morrow, when his shadow reaches there,” the Chief pointed to a great crack on the inside of the west wall—“you must go forth—if you can.... As for your friends, we shall take care of them if Hano does not!”

He turned and motioned to two of his braves. “Bind him!” he commanded. “Medicine lodge!”

They stepped forward and seized Sid. In a very few minutes he found himself seated, firmly bound to the very post from which he had freed Hano but recently. The food Nahla had brought for Hano was fed him; then the door was shut and he was left in the darkness of the lodge.

Sid reflected over it all as he sat, awaiting the long vigil until morning. Escape was impossible. Not only was he bound cunningly to the post so that any movement of even his hands was impossible, but two Apache guards squatted near him, silent as specters but watching him fixedly.

“Go forth—if you can!” had been Honanta’s last words. In them Sid found his sole hope. Honanta was still his friend, but the logic of the situation had been too strong even for him. But Honanta was more than his friend. It was true, then, that Colonel Colvin was that white officer! Honanta had said so at last. Through his father he owed a debt that to an Indian is never paid. Honanta, too, was torn between two duties—that to his tribe and that to Sid as the Colonel’s son. In the subtle workings of the Indian mind there would surely be a loophole for him, somewhere, by Honanta, Sid felt. It was for him to find and utilize that loophole of escape. It would be something that would clear Honanta’s conscience as regards his tribe, yet fulfill his obligation to him as the son of the man who had saved his life.

What it would be, Sid could not imagine. He decided to keep his eyes open to-morrow, alert to seize the opportunity whatever it should be. Then, with the ability of youth to sleep anywhere and in any impossible posture, his head fell forward on his chest and he was soon oblivious of his and any one else’s troubles.

Next morning as he was led from the lodge, a notable change in the village greeted him. A high Sun Dance pole had been erected during the night, with a cross bar secured near its top. From the bar dangled two effigies; the figure of a man and of a mountain sheep. Sid recognized the symbol of it. The figure represented Honanta, dead but for the intervention of the Great Mystery in the person of that white officer who had spared his mother. The mountain sheep represented man’s physical life, his principal means of sustenance, the gift of Mother Earth, replacing the buffalo of plains ceremonies.

After a time Honanta appeared, nude save for his moccasins and breech clout; his hair was disheveled, his body daubed with clay. He dragged after him the skull of a mountain sheep, symbolizing the grave from which he had escaped by divine intervention. As the eastern sun flamed over the wall of Red Mesa, an old priest cut and scarified Honanta’s chest, signifying the natural accompaniments of a physical death.

The rest of the tribe now formed in a line under the east wall and faced him. Sid himself was placed opposite Honanta, standing alone. He felt awed at the part he was taking—for he obviously represented the instrument through which the Great Mystery had shown His favor.

Looking with fixed eyes on the sun, Honanta began the Sun Dance, dragging the skull after him and blowing from time to time on a sacred whistle which he kept pointed at the sun as it rose toward the zenith.

Sid watched him, fascinated. He was seeing the original Sun Dance, the Indian symbol of death and resurrection, as it was before later changes degraded it into a meaningless exhibition of endurance under torture—about on the level with our own bull-ring and prize-fight arena. How long the dance would keep up depended solely upon Honanta’s physical endurance. He was not much over forty years of age, so he would be yet in his prime, and his fervor would lead him to dance before the Great Mystery until his sinews could work no longer.

Sid’s prayers went out to aid him. He liked to see a man give his best! This humbling of the body was nothing repulsive, when one thought of the exalted mood of that soul, engaged in an act of Indian worship so far above our own milder and, let us say, more self-indulgent and vanity-ridden forms of ritual.

An hour passed; two hours, while still the devoted Honanta maintained the peculiar syncopated rhythmic dance of the Indian. Occasionally his voice rose in a wild, high chant, relating the story of his rescue by that white officer of long ago. He called on the soul of his mother to witness; poured out prayers in thankful chants to the Great Mystery.

Sid watched, himself entirely in sympathy, the whole band of Apaches gradually working themselves to higher and higher exaltation of religious feeling. He hardly noted the passage of time until a glance over to the west wall brought home to him with a sudden shock that the shadow of the east wall had nearly reached that crack in the granite. His time was coming soon!

Others had noticed it, too, for one of the elders spoke a word. With a final invocation to the Great Mystery, Honanta slowly brought his dance to a close. He tottered toward Sid, his eyes sightless, his hand groping until it gripped Sid’s.

Sid felt a renewed fervor in that grip, but all Honanta said was: “My son, guide me—for you must now go forth from us.”

One of the braves pressed Sid’s rifle into his hands. Leading Honanta, Sid started for the medicine lodge. Young bucks and elders surrounded them. They were fully armed and their faces expressed the grim determination of the executioner. Sid guided Honanta to the outlet of the tunnel and himself raised the medicine sheepskin.

“Careful, my father!” he warned courteously, putting Honanta’s hands on the ladder post.

They descended, the tunnel filled with creeping warriors, ahead and behind them. Sid could not see what chance there was for his life in this! To whirl and shoot the instant his foot left the cave?—before he could move, a flight of arrows would feather themselves in him! If Honanta had a loophole in mind it must be provided soon!

But the party crept on down steadily. Then along each side of the cave entrance the bucks parted and lined up with arrow on string. Sid drew a long breath and stepped steadily to the entrance. Beyond that he could not go, without death. Bows creaked as he turned slowly, to find arrows drawn to the head upon him.

But Honanta was close behind him. “You must go forth, now, my son,” he pronounced gravely.

Sid tensed every muscle in his body, intending to throw himself down the lava crevice and then turn and shoot for his life. It was a forlorn hope, but——

Two long, fringed, buckskinned arms closed slowly around him as his foot lifted for the first step. Sid halted wonderingly—but the push of Honanta urged him on:

“Go forth, my son—and I will go with thee!” whispered the chief’s voice in his ear. “I cannot see thee slain! Let them shoot!”

Honanta’s own arms were around him now, his body protectingly between him and the Apaches. That was the way he had solved his dilemma!

Sid backed rebelliously. “No, chief! No! You must not!” he protested, attempting to turn in the chief’s arms. The utter silence of astonishment was all around them, the Apaches hesitating, arrow on bow, utterly disconcerted at this sudden development.

“On! While there is time!” grated the chief’s voice. “We shall escape to your people. They must never find Red Mesa. I trust you, my son, to keep silence!” urged Honanta.

Sid nodded. Honanta had found the best way out of it all. They were about to go on, letting the tribe decide as it would, when the distant Rrrraammp! Rrrraammp! Rrrraammp! of rifle shots coming from over the mountain arrested them.

“Halt! It is too late, Honanta!” barked Sid. “Listen!”

A fusillade of distant rifle shots broke out; then the rapid, continuous discharge of a repeating rifle.

“Ten shots!” said Sid. “That’s the Navaho’s Winchester, chief. Ours hold only five. Those other shots are Mausers—not hunting rifles! The Mexicans are here!”

He pushed Honanta back in the cave and then faced the Apaches. “Warriors of the Apache, I must stay and fight with you!” his voice rang out. “Those rifles are of Mexicanos, coming to take your home. After it is all over you can do what you will with me. Is it peace?”

The Apaches nodded sullenly and lowered their bows. Without Honanta they were leaderless.

“Let no one go out!” ordered Sid. “We need every man right here!”