The Vanishing American by Zane Grey

Author:Zane Grey [Zane Grey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-83-8115-902-9
Publisher: Ktoczyta.pl

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.

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