Chapter XIII

A Son of the Solitudes

Wonderingly Howard watched the man come on.  For a moment he believed that the new-comer had gone both mad and blind.  For the roving eyes were terrible to look into, black pools of misery, and the mouth was distended and the stumbling feet did not turn aside for scrub-brush or rock.  From the waist up the gaunt coppery body was naked; of a ragged pair of overalls held up by a rawhide thong one leg was gone; the feet were bare.

‘Hey there, companero,’ called Howard.  ‘Where are you going?’

It was no longer a question of breed or Indian now.  Despite the grime that made a mask over the face the features were unmistakably those of a pure-bred Hopi; the shape of the body that of the desert Indian.  He had the small shoulders, the thin arms and the powerful iron legs of his people.  He was passing only a dozen steps from Howard.  He stopped at the sound of the voice, stared wildly and then sagged on by.  Howard called again and then followed, bewildered.  The Indian fell twice before he came to the spot where there should be water.  Here he went down on his stomach, putting his face down as though to drink.  Howard heard him groan when the bleared eyes saw that instead of water there was but blazing hot sand.  The Indian made no other sound but merely rolled over on his back and lay very still, eyes shut, jaw dropping, hands lax at his sides.

‘You poor devil!’ muttered Howard.

He came to the prostrate figure.  Now he noted that from the string-belt there hung at one hip a little buckskin bag; it might have held a handful of dried meat.  Tied at the other hip was a bundle of feathers that made gay colour against the grey monotony, feathers of the bluebird, the redbird, blackbird and dove.  Scabbardless, tied with a bit of thong close to the feathers, was a knife with a long blade.

The Indian’s chest heaved spasmodically; his breath came in dry gasps.  Howard stooped over him and called to him softly.  The eyes flew open and, after a heavy gathering of the brows bespeaking the effort made, focussed upon Howard’s.

‘Agua,’ pleaded the swollen lips.

Howard took up a sardine tin, the contents of which he had eaten while he rested, and, very careful not to spill a drop of the priceless fluid, poured it half full from his canteen.  Then he knelt and put an arm about the gaunt body, lifting it a little, offering the water to the broken lips.  Now he noted that the cloth about the black head of hair was stained with blood.

He had expected the man to drink thirstily.  Instead, manifesting a display of will power such as the white man had never seen, the Indian took the water slowly, held it a moment in his mouth, swallowed it drop by drop.

‘More,’ he said when the tin was emptied.

Again Howard filled it.  Now the Indian sat upright alone and drank.  Afterwards he looked at Howard with a long, piercing regard.  A second time he said ‘More.’