Beyond The Desert

BEYOND THE DESERT

By Curran Richard Greenely

Copyright, 1902, T.C. McClure

Nadula clinched the shuttle tightly In her brown fingers and wove the scarlet thread in and out, scarce seeing for the angry tears that rained from under the black curtain of her lashes. Wahna, always Wahna! Truly, there was never a thought of her but the weaving of blankets and the baking of the tortilla.

   A jingle of beads and the patter of moccasined feet, as Wahna parted the skins that hung at the door of the chief's tent. Well might they call her Princess Wahna, the "Moon Maiden"- tall and slight, with a mouth like the pomegranate flower and a voice like the faroff chime of the mission bells.

   Nadula lifted her head and shot a contemptuous glance over the girl's slight figure, gay with wampum, elk teeth and the glistening beads from the white traders, with which Neras loved to decorate his best loved child. "Idle, always idle," she muttered to herself. But she smiled and called out cheerily as Wahna came toward her. "Hail, daughter of the great chief! How does our father since the morning?"

   Wahna's delicate face was grave and sorrowful. "The medicine man hath been with him, and the evil spirits will not depart, though they have made the white smoke of the fire anger to rise until our father could bear it no longer. He is feeble, and the breath comes slowly. He calls for thee."

   Nadula arose to her full height and let the unfinished blanket fall to the ground, where it lay, a gleam of gorgeous color in the setting sun. Inside the hut of skins lay the chief, ghastly in the shifting shadows of the eagle plumes in the great war bonnet that hung above his head. The massive figure stretched helplessly upon its couch of buffalo skins was pitifully waste with disease. He reached out his arms to Wahna and, holding her encircled said to Nadula, who stood proudly aloof in the uncertain light:

   "Daughter, it is not our custom to show aught of feeling. As the quiet river runneth deeply, so we of the Ottawas have kept our love and our vengeance. But thou knowest what the Moon Maiden hath been to me, child of the paleface mother, and it hath seemed wise that the maid should know a gentler life than the women of the Ottawas. Thou knowest how she has been taught in their schools and is promised to the young captain?"

   Nadula laughed. Short and bitter, it roused the dying man, and he raised upon one elbow to peer into her face. Nadula bent over him. "My father, as the shadows gather thou art a child again! The white man hath sought our Wahna for a moon perhaps, but when there is talk of wedding he will return to his own again. When has the paleface dealt otherwise with the daughters of the forest?" The mocking voice paused for the answer. Something of his strength came back to the old chief as he half raised himself and pointed to the doorway. "Go, serpent. The black finger is upon thy heart. Go, and when I ride down the west remember I leave Wahna in thy keeping and do thou see the right of it, else thou knowest what has been, what will be, when thy tribe shall hold the traitor."

   There was a gasp and a choking sigh, and Neras, the last chief of a once powerful tribe, had passed. All night the wailing women rent the air with their cries, all night the men went to and fro, with angry slashes of the sinewy breasts whence the blood fell in slow drops. At set of the morrow's sun they buried him, shrouded in his blanket, the eagle feathers waving over the dark face and at his feet the slaughtered pony that was to bear him safe and far.

   No more of weaving, no more of baking the tortilla. Nadula grasped the empty scepter. Day after day Wanna crept to the door of the tent and shaded her level brows in vain watching for her lover. Had Nadula spoken truly?

   For a time Nadula was too busy with the importance of her new authority to take thought of Wahna, but she had not forgotten. In the long summer days of the year before, when the young captain had chanced to visit the Ottawas through mere curiosity and the visit had been repeated again and again for the sake of the brown flower of the wilderness, Nadula, too, had learned to love the bonny face. And in her hot unschooled heart sprang up the terrible hatred of Wahna.

   It had commenced years before when Neras had sent Wahna away from the tribe, and from time to time she had made them short visits from her mission school with always a newer grace, a newer beauty and the spirit of the white mother shining in her soft eyes.  Neras had loved her with the aftermath of the great passion he had felt for the white captive that had hated him, who died with her despairing face turned away from the child of her sorrow and shame.

   Nadula had understood. She had not wanted for the telling when the women crouched together over the cooking pots at evening. What wonder that she hated Wahna with all the force of a savage nature.

   In the midst of the lull came an awakening, for despite all Nadula's sneering taunts Malcolm Davent crossed the strip of desert to the country of the Ottawas to claim his bride. Nadula received him in the council tent, with the head men grouped around her. It was her hand that held out the pipe and bade him sit beside her, contriving to hold him there with one pretest and another. Davent listened absently as the silken sweet voice murmured to him. Then, ere she could detain him, be broke away, and, springing to the center of the tent, called upon the Ottawas for the pledge of Neras-Wahana. By the spoken word of Neras in solemn council had the girl been given to him; and as Nadula would have interfered, one by one the elders of the tribe arose to bear witness to the bond.

   Then Wahna, her face alight with joy, came trom the shadows where she had bidden in her despair. There was no gainsaying the word that had passed. Nadula watched, her heart almost stilled, as the men and women parted to either side.  The old medicine man drew his circle around the two, while the red flame from the fire leaped and threw its golden light on the faces of Malcolm Davent and Wahna.

   That night the Ottawas feasted, and there was great rejoicing, for at the rising of the moon the Princess Wahna would ride away from them forever. And when the feast was ended Nadula brought forth a bottle of musty hued wine to pledge them "after the manner of the paleface," as she said, and smiled into Davent's eyes. She was quick as thought. but the eye of love is swifter. Wahna sprang from Davent's side and grasped the slender wrist. "Poison! Poison!" And a low murmur of horror ran around the great tent.

   Nadula drew her slender form to its full height and glanced proudly from one face to another. "What say ye, my people? Am I guilty?" The defiance rang clear as a clarion note, and no man answered. Again: "What say ye, my people? Judge ye between us- the white serpent or the true daughter of the Ottawas!" The wind in the mesquite was the only answer. Wahna still clasped the slender wrist in her tense fingers, while the glare of the torches threw red waves of light on the swart faces as the ring drew ever closer.

   The old medicine man parted the crowd to either side. "Daughters of the great Chief Neras, nail!"  And the elk teeth rattled on his shrunken chest as he knelt, spreading out his clawlike hands. "Hearken to the voice of one old in council. "Hear, accuser and accursed. If there be poison in the cup, as the Lady Wahna hath said, then let the Lady Nadula drink that which she hath prepared for another,  if there be no poison then shall she drink to prove the blackness of a lie. I have spoken."

   A shudder ran along the surge of faces that gathered around Nadula, Wahna's hand fell away, and she cowered against Davent's shoulder.

   Nadula's proud eyes swept the mass before her, hostile and grim. There was not an answering eye. "Drink, Nadula!" the old voice commanded, and Nadula drained the wine. Then she gathered her robes around her and went out from among them.                                               

   Miles away to the westward rode Davent, with Wahna close at his side, the sturdy cayuse keeping uneven stride with the Kentucky thoroughbred, on to where the white tower of the mission shone above the olive groves, out to the west, to her mother's people. But beyond the fringe of the desert, in the land of the Ottawas, there are shrouded faces among the older men, and the ponies are laden for a long march away to the south. In the hut of Neras lay something that they might not touch under the law of the Ottawas, alone, accursed, the unseeing eyes peering through the shadows of the tent into the deeper shadows beyond.