OCR Text |
Show up more evidence of that old Indian campground, more stones crumbled from repeated firings, piles of obsidian chips left by ancient arrowhead makers, even bits of pottery. All this was near a low spot that might have been a water hole. In the middle of the field was a hummock I fancied might be an old burial mound. At the end of the day the wind died. But every rye plant lay on its Side, pointing away from the fierce destroyer, attached to earth only by a now useless taproot. I walked out through the field. In a sunset red with the dust of death I went over the old campground. I felt almost disloyal to Father when I rejoiced to find more Indian relics. The thirsty wind had bitten away the precious topsoil accumulated from centuries of growth and decay of brush. On a few inch-high pedestals of red soil lay arrow heads. We had sacrificed the rye for a few Indian relics. After that my faith in the Escalante could not be renewed. But Father, cherishing his robust health, buoyed by his hope, preserved his confidence in the desert. He would plant again and again. |