Reel Life (Sep 1913 - Mar 1914)

6 E®e! Life Adapted from the Kay-Bee Play of William H. Clifford and Thos. H. Ince BY MARION SAVAGE The late afternoon sun blazed low in the far mouth of Red Caiion, flooding the narrow defile. The painted walls of marble and sandstone— streaked with ocre and agate, spotted like the leopard, glowing dull red and deep orange, flaming to vermilion, violet and gold — towered precipitous, hewn into innumerable pinnacles whose terraced sides gleamed like cascades of prismatic water frozen by the breath of the Great Spirit. Through this marvel of ancientness, of sublimity, of glorious devastation — strode a solitary Indian. He was tall and young, he moved noiselessly— his supple, naked body silhouetted against the strong light, like sculptured copper — a single eagle plume soaring above his head. In his face and bearmg were kingliness, and profound peace — for the heart of Tall Pine was good. The Good God has prospered him in the hunting — the skins of grey wolves and coyotes hung from his«houlders — he had the approbation of the Powers Unseen, and of his tribe — this young Navajo brave who aspired to become a chieftain. Emerging from the eastern gate of the pass, his level gaze swept the broad expanse of the Arizona country — southward, for fifty miles, to the great flank of Shinuma Altar — north and eastward, across the dense chaparral of the Indian Reservaiion, dotted with pony herds and the tepees of his people, homelike with the twisting smoke of lodge fires. The motionless air was like crystal. He could hear the barking of dogs and the cry of the herdboys in his own village. It was sweet to him. Suddenly, a harsh outory broke from below — a mingling of expletives and curses with hilarious laughter — the clatter of jugs on bare tables, of scuffling feet and falling furniture. A chorus of parting huzzahs — the thud of hoofs — and a boistrous crew tore across the coulee in a cloud of yellow dust — swaying and veering in their saddles. The white men at the settlement were celebrating the Feast of Freedom. With the fourth sun of every seventh month it came around — ah, it was not thus that Tall Pine observed the Great Feast of his tribesmen! He joined the braves at daybreak in the sun dance — he praised the deeds of the young warriors, eating of the meats of their first killing, before the tepee of the Chief — and at evening, he went afoot many miles across the grey wolf country to the rim rock on the clif¥— and there, gazing westward, on the terrible majesty of the caiions and the Painted Desert, he muttered charms against the bad gods, imploring all night with chant and prayer the protection of the Good God for his people. But the white men danced only when they had drunk much fire water — and they sought no gods on the mountains ! Why was it that their medicine — and their law — were stronger? As the Indian strode through the settlement, the din in' creased. It was pent up in the saloon. Then — an explosion of firecrackers — yells of rage — deafening laughter — a volley of pistol shots — and the door burst open. A man reeled out, tipsily swinging a revolver — firing right and left — his coattails ablaze — crazy with fear, bewilderment and anger Tall Pine leaped aside — the cowboy fell backward into a trough of water, putting out the crackers. As he came vaguely to himself, a grin overspread his features. "Ho, Injun! Fourth — July! Can't — chew dance — leedle bit? Shay — can't — chew dance — damn you?" The saloon door was filled with peering faces. With a shrug of his shoulders, the Indian passed in dignified silence. The next moment, the bullets were striking around his feet. He turned — springing at his assailant — lightly catching him by the wrists, with a grip like iron. The two writhed and struggled. Tall Pine wrenched away the revolver — flinging the man from him. The cowboy's face grew black with rage —he lunged at the Indian— Tall Pine fired— and he fell in a huddled heap. With a motion of disgust, the Niavajo tossed the pistol at him — then ran like a deer. A few yards distant, before the general store, an Indian pony was standing. He flung himself on its back. Then, away— through the swishing sage brush— through the labyrinths of the thickets— running the trail like an arrow! Fifteen minutes later. Sheriff Blake was stooping over the motionless bulk of Black Pete. "Dead! Take 'im away," he commanded. He rode to the telegraph station — and a message flashed over the wire to Fort Ogden. "Col Bruce: On way to Indian village to arrest Tall Pine for murder. May have trouble. Meet me with troops at Navajo Creek, the upper ford. Sheriff Blake." Chief Heart-of-the-Storm and his braves sat under the great