CHAPTER XIII

Morgan stayed up until a late hour that night, expecting the Noki to return with news of what had actually happened. But the Indian did not come. Morgan grew rather toward a conviction that nothing unusual had occurred. So at midnight he put aside the Bible he had been studying and went to bed. His slumbers were not disturbed by nightmare or visitor.

Next morning, while at breakfast Morgan had a caller–the old man who had been the government farmer at Mesa for years. His short wedge-shaped figure seemed energized by rugged vitality; his features were a record of the desert.

“Mr. Morgan, the Nokis down at Copenwashie are raisin’ hell with me,” he began.

“Yes? What for? And when you address me pray do not be profane.”

“It’s a dry season. All but two of the springs have failed. The Nokis haven’t enough water for their alfalfa. Friel gets the water first for his land. That’s what the Nokis are sore about. An’ I’m sayin’ they’ve got reason!”

“Why do you come to me? I deal with the souls of Indians, not their water rights.”

“Wal, Friel’s deals are mostly with their water rights,” replied the farmer, bluntly. “Now my stand is this. The Nokis are industrious farmers. They’ve worked hard on that alfalfa. An’ I don’t want to see it burn up. Friel said what he did was none of my business. I want the Indians to have more of the water that belongs to them.”

“Belongs to them? How do you figure that?”

“The Nokis were here before either the Nopahs or the whites.”

“That’s nothing. The water belongs to the government. And Mr. Friel has a patent on land and water from the government. I couldn’t do anything, even if I wanted to.”

“Friel has no horses suffering for hay or water. He sells his hay. The Indians need good hay and plenty of water. They can’t send their horses out into the desert to live on soapweed and greasewood. These Nokis are freighters. They freight supplies from Flagerstown. That’s how they earn their living.... They’re not gettin’ a square deal.”

“Go to Blucher,” replied Morgan.

“I just left him,” returned the farmer. “He wasn’t interested–sent me to you. I reckon he was upset by his men havin’ to kill an Indian last night.”

“That so? I hadn’t heard,” rejoined Morgan, with no especial interest. He might not have been aware of the grey desert eyes bent upon him.

“Wal, it was owin’ to some new rulin’ or other Blucher ordered,” went on the farmer. “Do etin refused to obey, as I heered the story. When Rhur with his deputies, Glendon and Naylor, tried to arrest Do etin he fought–an’ they had to kill him.”

“That was unfortunate,” said Morgan, gravely shaking his head. “But Indians must learn to obey.”

“Mr. Morgan, would you be good enough to have Friel ease up on the water?” asked the farmer, earnestly. “He’s usin’ more than he needs. An’ we haven’t had a lot of rain at Copenwashie.”

“No. Such a request from me would imply that I shared your opinion as to Mr. Friel’s wastefulness, which I don’t.”

“Ah-huh!” ejaculated the government man, and abruptly turned on his heel. His heavy boots thumped on the porch. Then he was gone.

In the course of the day Morgan heard many versions of the killing of Do etin. He read Blucher’s brief statement to the officials at Washington; he asked for the distressed Miss Warner’s knowledge of it; he heard Rhur tell how it had happened, and also Glendon. He showed grave concern as he met the stockman, Wolterson, and asked what he had heard about it. All stories were substantially the same, precisely what the school policeman and his deputies had reported first to the superintendent and later told to other government employees. There was no excitement nor any particular comment. The death of an Indian was nothing. But when Morgan asked Jay Lord what he had heard, he added a few trenchant words of his own to the reiterated story: “Wal, that’s what they say!”

Late that day Morgan received the Noki spy in his study, the windows and blinds of which were closed. And peering down into the dark, inscrutable face of this Noki who hated Nopahs, Morgan heard a long story, told with all the singular detail of an Indian’s subtle and faithful observance, a story strangely and vastly different from all the others concerning Do etin’s tragic death.

It was again night, and one of those nights set for the Indian girls selected by Morgan to come to his chapel to hear him preach. This missionary had not mastered the Nopah language; he had merely been among the Indians so long that he had acquired a use of their tongue sufficiently to make his meaning clear.

He harangued at the still, dark faces. “You must learn to obey me. Your people are too old to learn. They are heathen. Their God is no good. Their religion is no good. Your parents have no chance for heaven. They are steeped in ignorance and sin. They will burn forever in Hell’s fire.”

“Heaven and Hell are places. Most of the things you do and believe now will send you straight to Hell when you die, unless you take my religion. The fox made the Nopah Indian, and the fox is the lowest of beasts. As you are now, each of you is like a big ugly sore. The school doctor, the medicine man, makes medicine over it, and it looks fine from the outside. But under that coat it is still a sore. So are you Nopah girls rotten at the heart. You think if you can put on bright clothes so you will appear fine on the outside you are all right. For this you are going straight to Hell!”

“You must forget the songs and the legends and the prayers of your people. Indians are heathen. They must accept the white man’s way, his clothes, his work, his talk, his life, and his God. Then some day the Indians will become white in heart.”

Thus the missionary preached for an hour to those still, dark faces. Then he dismissed his congregation, but at the door of the chapel he drew one Indian girl back.

“Gekin Yashi–you stay,” he said, as he held her. “I will preach to you alone, so you can spread my word to your sisters.”

This Indian maiden did not have a still, dark face. It was pale and agitated, yet beautiful with its contour, its great dusky eyes, its red lips. She was trembling as the missionary led her back from the door. Suddenly he pushed her into a seat and towered over her, strung in all his body, obsessed with his fanaticism.

“Gekin Yashi, do you know your father is dead?” he asked, in harsh sharp voice.

“Oh–no, sir,” the girl faltered, sinking back.

“He is.... He was killed last night–killed because he fought the white men who went to arrest him. But it was sin that killed him. He would not obey.”

The missionary paused. Gekin Yashi’s sweet and youthful face slowly changed–quivered with tears streaming from her tragic eyes–and set in a strange dull expression of fear, bewilderment, and misery. Then her dark head drooped.

“You ran off to the Pahutes,” went on the missionary. “Who took you?”

Gekin Yashi made no answer.

“It was Nophaie. He will be shot the same as your father–unless you confess your sin–and then accept my religion.... Speak! Did Nophaie take you away?”

“Yes,” she whispered. “But Gekin Yashi has not sinned. She is like the white girl Benow di cleash.”

Then the missionary thundered at her.

“Yes, you have sinned. You are all sin. Only the Word can wash you clean. Bid me speak it–pray for you to Jesus Christ.... I will save you from the ice-pits and the fire- caves of Hell.... Tremble in your fear!–Fall on your knees, you daughter of heathen!... Hate that false nature worship!... Love me–the white man of God!... Promise to do what I tell you!”

The Indian girl lifted her face, and then her little brown hands that fluttered like leaves in a storm.

“Gekin Yashi–promises,” she breathed, almost inaudibly.