THE RAINBOW TRAIL,
a Romance

By Zane Grey

CONTENTS

FOREWORD

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

I.   RED LAKE

II.   THE SAGI

III.   KAYENTA

IV.   NEW FRIENDS

V.   ON THE TRAIL

VI.   IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY

VII.   SAGO-LILIES

VIII.   THE HOGAN OF NAS TA BEGA

IX.   IN THE DESERT CRUCIBLE

X.   STONEBRIDGE

XI.   AFTER THE TRIAL

XII.   THE REVELATION

XIII.   THE STORY OF SURPRISE VALLEY

XIV.   THE NAVAJO

XV.   WILD JUSTICE

XVI.   SURPRISE VALLEY

XVII.   THE TRAIL TO NONNEZOSHE

XVIII.    AT THE FOOT OF THE
RAINBOW

XIX.   THE GRAND
CANYON OF THE COLORADO

XX.   WILLOW
SPRINGS

EPILOGUE.     

FOREWORD

The spell of the desert comes back to me, as it always will come. I see
the veils, like purple smoke, in the canyon, and I feel the silence. And
it seems that again I must try to pierce both and to get at the strange
wild life of the last American wilderness—wild still, almost, as it
ever was.

While this romance is an independent story, yet readers of “Riders of the
Purple Sage” will find in it an answer to a question often asked.

I wish to say also this story has appeared serially in a different form in
one of the monthly magazines under the title of “The Desert Crucible.”
ZANE GREY.

THE RAINBOW TRAIL

I. RED LAKE

Shefford halted his tired horse and gazed with slowly realizing eyes.

A league-long slope of sage rolled and billowed down to Red Lake, a dry
red basin, denuded and glistening, a hollow in the desert, a lonely and
desolate door to the vast, wild, and broken upland beyond.

All day Shefford had plodded onward with the clear horizon-line a thing
unattainable; and for days before that he had ridden the wild bare flats
and climbed the rocky desert benches. The great colored reaches and steps
had led endlessly onward and upward through dim and deceiving distance.

A hundred miles of desert travel, with its mistakes and lessons and
intimations, had not prepared him for what he now saw. He beheld what
seemed a world that knew only magnitude. Wonder and awe fixed his gaze,
and thought remained aloof. Then that dark and unknown northland flung a
menace at him. An irresistible call had drawn him to this seamed and
peaked border of Arizona, this broken battlemented wilderness of Utah
upland; and at first sight they frowned upon him, as if to warn him not to
search for what lay hidden beyond the ranges. But Shefford thrilled with
both fear and exultation. That was the country which had been described to
him. Far across the red valley, far beyond the ragged line of black mesa
and yellow range, lay the wild canyon with its haunting secret.

Red Lake must be his Rubicon. Either he must enter the unknown to seek, to
strive, to find, or turn back and fail and never know and be always
haunted. A friend’s strange story had prompted his singular journey; a
beautiful rainbow with its mystery and promise had decided him. Once in
his life he had answered a wild call to the kingdom of adventure within
him, and once in his life he had been happy. But here in the horizon-wide
face of that up-flung and cloven desert he grew cold; he faltered even
while he felt more fatally drawn.

As if impelled Shefford started his horse down the sandy trail, but he
checked his former far-reaching gaze. It was the month of April, and the
waning sun lost heat and brightness. Long shadows crept down the slope
ahead of him and the scant sage deepened its gray. He watched the lizards
shoot like brown streaks across the sand, leaving their slender tracks; he
heard the rustle of pack-rats as they darted into their brushy homes; the
whir of a low-sailing hawk startled his horse.

Like ocean waves the slope rose and fell, its hollows choked with sand,
its ridge-tops showing scantier growth of sage and grass and weed. The
last ridge was a sand-dune, beautifully ribbed and scalloped and lined by
the wind, and from its knife-sharp crest a thin wavering sheet of sand
blew, almost like smoke. Shefford wondered why the sand looked red at a
distance, for here it seemed almost white. It rippled everywhere, clean
and glistening, always leading down.

Suddenly Shefford became aware of a house looming out of the bareness of
the slope. It dominated that long white incline. Grim, lonely, forbidding,
how strangely it harmonized with the surroundings! The structure was
octagon-shaped, built of uncut stone, and resembled a fort. There was no
door on the sides exposed to Shefford’s gaze, but small apertures
two-thirds the way up probably served as windows and port-holes. The roof
appeared to be made of poles covered with red earth.

Like a huge cold rock on a wide plain this house stood there on the windy
slope. It was an outpost of the trader Presbrey, of whom Shefford had
heard at Flagstaff and Tuba. No living thing appeared in the limit of
Shefford’s vision. He gazed shudderingly at the unwelcoming habitation, at
the dark eyelike windows, at the sweep of barren slope merging into the
vast red valley, at the bold, bleak bluffs. Could any one live here? The
nature of that sinister valley forbade a home there, and the spirit of the
place hovered in the silence and space. Shefford thought irresistibly of
how his enemies would have consigned him to just such a hell. He thought
bitterly and mockingly of the narrow congregation that had proved him a
failure in the ministry, that had repudiated his ideas of religion and
immortality and God, that had driven him, at the age of twenty-four, from
the calling forced upon him by his people. As a boy he had yearned to make
himself an artist; his family had made him a clergyman; fate had made him
a failure. A failure only so far in his life, something urged him to add—for
in the lonely days and silent nights of the desert he had experienced a
strange birth of hope. Adventure had called him, but it was a vague and
spiritual hope, a dream of promise, a nameless attainment that fortified
his wilder impulse.

As he rode around a corner of the stone house his horse snorted and
stopped. A lean, shaggy pony jumped at sight of him, almost displacing a
red long-haired blanket that covered an Indian saddle. Quick thuds of
hoofs in sand drew Shefford’s attention to a corral made of peeled poles,
and here he saw another pony.

Shefford heard subdued voices. He dismounted and walked to an open door.
In the dark interior he dimly descried a high counter, a stairway, a pile
of bags of flour, blankets, and silver-ornamented objects, but the persons
he had heard were not in that part of the house. Around another corner of
the octagon-shaped wall he found another open door, and through it saw
goat-skins and a mound of dirty sheep-wool, black and brown and white. It
was light in this part of the building. When he crossed the threshold he
was astounded to see a man struggling with a girl—an Indian girl.
She was straining back from him, panting, and uttering low guttural
sounds. The man’s face was corded and dark with passion. This scene
affected Shefford strangely. Primitive emotions were new to him.

Before Shefford could speak the girl broke loose and turned to flee. She
was an Indian and this place was the uncivilized desert, but Shefford knew
terror when he saw it. Like a dog the man rushed after her. It was
instinct that made Shefford strike, and his blow laid the man flat. He lay
stunned a moment, then raised himself to a sitting posture, his hand to
his face, and the gaze he fixed upon Shefford seemed to combine
astonishment and rage.

“I hope you’re not Presbrey,” said Shefford, slowly. He felt awkward, not
sure of himself.

The man appeared about to burst into speech, but repressed it. There was
blood on his mouth and his hand. Hastily he scrambled to his feet.
Shefford saw this man’s amaze and rage change to shame. He was tall and
rather stout; he had a smooth tanned face, soft of outline, with a weak
chin; his eyes were dark. The look of him and his corduroys and his soft
shoes gave Shefford an impression that he was not a man who worked hard.
By contrast with the few other worn and rugged desert men Shefford had met
this stranger stood out strikingly. He stooped to pick up a soft felt hat
and, jamming it on his head, he hurried out. Shefford followed him and
watched him from the door. He went directly to the corral, mounted the
pony, and rode out, to turn down the slope toward the south. When he
reached the level of the basin, where evidently the sand was hard, he put
the pony to a lope and gradually drew away.

“Well!” ejaculated Shefford. He did not know what to make of this
adventure. Presently he became aware that the Indian girl was sitting on a
roll of blankets near the wall. With curious interest Shefford studied her
appearance. She had long, raven-black hair, tangled and disheveled, and
she wore a soiled white band of cord above her brow. The color of her face
struck him; it was dark, but not red nor bronzed; it almost had a tinge of
gold. Her profile was clear-cut, bold, almost stern. Long black eyelashes
hid her eyes. She wore a tight-fitting waist garment of material
resembling velveteen. It was ripped along her side, exposing a skin still
more richly gold than that of her face. A string of silver ornaments and
turquoise-and-white beads encircled her neck, and it moved gently up and
down with the heaving of her full bosom. Her skirt was some gaudy print
goods, torn and stained and dusty. She had little feet, incased in brown
moccasins, fitting like gloves and buttoning over the ankles with silver
coins.

“Who was that man? Did he hurt you?” inquired Shefford, turning to gaze
down the valley where a moving black object showed on the bare sand.

“No savvy,” replied the Indian girl.

“Where’s the trader Presbrey?” asked Shefford.

She pointed straight down into the red valley.

“Toh,” she said.

In the center of the basin lay a small pool of water shining brightly in
the sunset glow. Small objects moved around it, so small that Shefford
thought he saw several dogs led by a child. But it was the distance that
deceived him. There was a man down there watering his horses. That
reminded Shefford of the duty owing to his own tired and thirsty beast.
Whereupon he untied his pack, took off the saddle, and was about ready to
start down when the Indian girl grasped the bridle from his hand.

“Me go,” she said.

He saw her eyes then, and they made her look different. They were as black
as her hair. He was puzzled to decide whether or not he thought her
handsome.

“Thanks, but I’ll go,” he replied, and, taking the bridle again, he
started down the slope. At every step he sank into the deep, soft sand.
Down a little way he came upon a pile of tin cans; they were everywhere,
buried, half buried, and lying loose; and these gave evidence of how the
trader lived. Presently Shefford discovered that the Indian girl was
following him with her own pony. Looking upward at her against the light,
he thought her slender, lithe, picturesque. At a distance he liked her.

He plodded on, at length glad to get out of the drifts of sand to the hard
level floor of the valley. This, too, was sand, but dried and baked hard,
and red in color. At some season of the year this immense flat must be
covered with water. How wide it was, and empty! Shefford experienced again
a feeling that had been novel to him—and it was that he was loose,
free, unanchored, ready to veer with the wind. From the foot of the slope
the water hole had appeared to be a few hundred rods out in the valley.
But the small size of the figures made Shefford doubt; and he had to
travel many times a few hundred rods before those figures began to grow.
Then Shefford made out that they were approaching him.

Thereafter they rapidly increased to normal proportions of man and beast.
When Shefford met them he saw a powerful, heavily built young man leading
two ponies.

“You’re Mr. Presbrey, the trader?” inquired Shefford.

“Yes, I’m Presbrey, without the Mister,” he replied.

“My name’s Shefford. I’m knocking about on the desert. Rode from beyond
Tuba to-day.”

“Glad to see you,” said Presbrey. He offered his hand. He was a stalwart
man, clad in gray shirt, overalls, and boots. A shock of tumbled light
hair covered his massive head; he was tanned, but not darkly, and there
was red in his cheeks; under his shaggy eyebrows were deep, keen eyes; his
lips were hard and set, as if occasion for smiles or words was rare; and
his big, strong jaw seemed locked.

“Wish more travelers came knocking around Red Lake,” he added. “Reckon
here’s the jumping-off place.”

“It’s pretty—lonesome,” said Shefford, hesitating as if at a loss
for words.

Then the Indian girl came up. Presbrey addressed her in her own language,
which Shefford did not understand. She seemed shy and would not answer;
she stood with downcast face and eyes. Presbrey spoke again, at which she
pointed down the valley, and then moved on with her pony toward the
water-hole.

Presbrey’s keen eyes fixed on the receding black dot far down that oval
expanse.

“That fellow left—rather abruptly,” said Shefford, constrainedly.
“Who was he?”

“His name’s Willetts. He’s a missionary. He rode in to-day with this
Navajo girl. He was taking her to Blue canyon, where he lives and teaches
the Indians. I’ve met him only a few times. You see, not many white men
ride in here. He’s the first white man I’ve seen in six months, and you’re
the second. Both the same day!… Red Lake’s getting popular! It’s queer,
though, his leaving. He expected to stay all night. There’s no other place
to stay. Blue canyon is fifty miles away.”

“I’m sorry to say—no, I’m not sorry, either—but I must tell
you I was the cause of Mr. Willetts leaving,” replied Shefford.

“How so?” inquired the other.

Then Shefford related the incident following his arrival.

“Perhaps my action was hasty,” he concluded, apologetically. “I didn’t
think. Indeed, I’m surprised at myself.”

Presbrey made no comment and his face was as hard to read as one of the
distant bluffs.

“But what did the man mean?” asked Shefford, conscious of a little heat.
“I’m a stranger out here. I’m ignorant of Indians—how they’re
controlled. Still I’m no fool…. If Willetts didn’t mean evil, at least
he was brutal.”

“He was teaching her religion,” replied Presbrey. His tone held faint
scorn and implied a joke, but his face did not change in the slightest.

Without understanding just why, Shefford felt his conviction justified and
his action approved. Then he was sensible of a slight shock of wonder and
disgust.

“I am—I was a minister of the Gospel,” he said to Presbrey. “What
you hint seems impossible. I can’t believe it.”

“I didn’t hint,” replied Presbrey, bluntly, and it was evident that he was
a sincere, but close-mouthed, man. “Shefford, so you’re a preacher?… Did
you come out here to try to convert the Indians?”

“No. I said I WAS a minister. I am no longer. I’m just a—a
wanderer.”

“I see. Well, the desert’s no place for missionaries, but it’s good for
wanderers…. Go water your horse and take him up to the corral. You’ll
find some hay for him. I’ll get grub ready.”

Shefford went on with his horse to the pool. The water appeared thick,
green, murky, and there was a line of salty crust extending around the
margin of the pool. The thirsty horse splashed in and eagerly bent his
head. But he did not like the taste. Many times he refused to drink, yet
always lowered his nose again. Finally he drank, though not his fill.
Shefford saw the Indian girl drink from her hand. He scooped up a handful
and found it too sour to swallow. When he turned to retrace his steps she
mounted her pony and followed him.

A golden flare lit up the western sky, and silhouetted dark and lonely
against it stood the trading-post. Upon his return Shefford found the wind
rising, and it chilled him. When he reached the slope thin gray sheets of
sand were blowing low, rising, whipping, falling, sweeping along with soft
silken rustle. Sometimes the gray veils hid his boots. It was a long,
toilsome climb up that yielding, dragging ascent, and he had already been
lame and tired. By the time he had put his horse away twilight was
everywhere except in the west. The Indian girl left her pony in the corral
and came like a shadow toward the house.

Shefford had difficulty in finding the foot of the stairway. He climbed to
enter a large loft, lighted by two lamps. Presbrey was there, kneading
biscuit dough in a pan.

“Make yourself comfortable,” he said.

The huge loft was the shape of a half-octagon. A door opened upon the
valley side, and here, too, there were windows. How attractive the place
was in comparison with the impressions gained from the outside! The
furnishings consisted of Indian blankets on the floor, two beds, a desk
and table, several chairs and a couch, a gun-rack full of rifles,
innumerable silver-ornamented belts, bridles, and other Indian articles
upon the walls, and in one corner a wood-burning stove with teakettle
steaming, and a great cupboard with shelves packed full of canned foods.

Shefford leaned in the doorway and looked out. Beneath him on a roll of
blankets sat the Indian girl, silent and motionless. He wondered what was
in her mind, what she would do, how the trader would treat her. The slope
now was a long slant of sheeted moving shadows of sand. Dusk had gathered
in the valley. The bluffs loomed beyond. A pale star twinkled above.
Shefford suddenly became aware of the intense nature of the stillness
about him. Yet, as he listened to this silence, he heard an intermittent
and immeasurably low moan, a fitful, mournful murmur. Assuredly it was
only the wind. Nevertheless, it made his blood run cold. It was a
different wind from that which had made music under the eaves of his
Illinois home. This was a lonely, haunting wind, with desert hunger in it,
and more which he could not name. Shefford listened to this
spirit-brooding sound while he watched night envelop the valley. How
black, how thick the mantle! Yet it brought no comforting sense of
close-folded protection, of walls of soft sleep, of a home. Instead there
was the feeling of space, of emptiness, of an infinite hall down which a
mournful wind swept streams of murmuring sand.

“Well, grub’s about ready,” said Presbrey.

“Got any water?” asked Shefford.

“Sure. There in the bucket. It’s rain-water. I have a tank here.”

Shefford’s sore and blistered face felt better after he had washed off the
sand and alkali dust.

“Better not wash your face often while you’re in the desert. Bad plan,”
went on Presbrey, noting how gingerly his visitor had gone about his
ablutions. “Well, come and eat.”

Shefford marked that if the trader did live a lonely life he fared well.
There was more on the table than twice two men could have eaten. It was
the first time in four days that Shefford had sat at a table, and he made
up for lost opportunity.

His host’s actions indicated pleasure, yet the strange, hard face never
relaxed, never changed. When the meal was finished Presbrey declined
assistance, had a generous thought of the Indian girl, who, he said, could
have a place to eat and sleep down-stairs, and then with the skill and
despatch of an accomplished housewife cleared the table, after which work
he filled a pipe and evidently prepared to listen.

It took only one question for Shefford to find that the trader was starved
for news of the outside world; and for an hour Shefford fed that appetite,
even as he had been done by. But when he had talked himself out there
seemed indication of Presbrey being more than a good listener.

“How’d you come in?” he asked, presently.

“By Flagstaff—across the Little Colorado—and through
Moencopie.”

“Did you stop at Moen Ave?”

“No. What place is that?”

“A missionary lives there. Did you stop at Tuba?”

“Only long enough to drink and water my horse. That was a wonderful spring
for the desert.”

“You said you were a wanderer…. Do you want a job? I’ll give you one.”

“No, thank you, Presbrey.”

“I saw your pack. That’s no pack to travel with in this country. Your
horse won’t last, either. Have you any money?”

“Yes, plenty of money.”

“Well, that’s good. Not that a white man out here would ever take a dollar
from you. But you can buy from the Indians as you go. Where are you making
for, anyhow?”

Shefford hesitated, debating in mind whether to tell his purpose or not.
His host did not press the question.

“I see. Just foot-loose and wandering around,” went on Presbrey. “I can
understand how the desert appeals to you. Preachers lead easy, safe,
crowded, bound lives. They’re shut up in a church with a Bible and good
people. When once in a lifetime they get loose—they break out.”

“Yes, I’ve broken out—beyond all bounds,” replied Shefford, sadly.
He seemed retrospective for a moment, unaware of the trader’s keen and
sympathetic glance, and then he caught himself. “I want to see some wild
life. Do you know the country north of here?”

“Only what the Navajos tell me. And they’re not much to talk. There’s a
trail goes north, but I’ve never traveled it. It’s a new trail every time
an Indian goes that way, for here the sand blows and covers old tracks.
But few Navajos ride in from the north. My trade is mostly with Indians up
and down the valley.”

“How about water and grass?”

“We’ve had rain and snow. There’s sure to be, water. Can’t say about
grass, though the sheep and ponies from the north are always fat…. But,
say, Shefford, if you’ll excuse me for advising you—don’t go north.”

“Why?” asked Shefford, and it was certain that he thrilled.

“It’s unknown country, terribly broken, as you can see from here, and
there are bad Indians biding in the canyon. I’ve never met a man who had
been over the pass between here and Kayenta. The trip’s been made, so
there must be a trail. But it’s a dangerous trip for any man, let alone a
tenderfoot. You’re not even packing a gun.”

“What’s this place Kayenta?” asked Shefford.

“It’s a spring. Kayenta means Bottomless Spring. There’s a little
trading-post, the last and the wildest in northern Arizona. Withers, the
trader who keeps it, hauls his supplies in from Colorado and New Mexico.
He’s never come down this way. I never saw him. Know nothing of him except
hearsay. Reckon he’s a nervy and strong man to hold that post. If you want
to go there, better go by way of Keams canyon, and then around the foot of
Black Mesa. It’ll be a long ride—maybe two hundred miles.”

“How far straight north over the pass?”

“Can’t say. Upward of seventy-five miles over rough trails, if there are
trails at all…. I’ve heard rumors of a fine tribe of Navajos living in
there, rich in sheep and horses. It may be true and it may not. But I do
know there are bad Indians, half-breeds and outcasts, hiding in there.
Some of them have visited me here. Bad customers! More than that, you’ll
be going close to the Utah line, and the Mormons over there are unfriendly
these days.”

“Why?” queried Shefford, again with that curious thrill.

“They are being persecuted by the government.”

Shefford asked no more questions and his host vouchsafed no more
information on that score. The conversation lagged. Then Shefford inquired
about the Indian girl and learned that she lived up the valley somewhere.
Presbrey had never seen her before Willetts came with her to Red Lake. And
this query brought out the fact that Presbrey was comparatively new to Red
Lake and vicinity. Shefford wondered why a lonely six months there had not
made the trader old in experience. Probably the desert did not readily
give up its secrets. Moreover, this Red Lake house was only an
occasionally used branch of Presbrey’s main trading-post, which was
situated at Willow Springs, fifty miles westward over the mesa.

“I’m closing up here soon for a spell,” said Presbrey, and now his face
lost its set hardness and seemed singularly changed. It was a difference,
of light and softness. “Won’t be so lonesome over at Willow Springs….
I’m being married soon.”

“That’s fine,” replied Shefford, warmly. He was glad for the sake of this
lonely desert man. What good a wife would bring into a trader’s life!

Presbrey’s naive admission, however, appeared to detach him from his
present surroundings, and with his massive head enveloped by a cloud of
smoke he lived in dreams.

Shefford respected his host’s serene abstraction. Indeed, he was grateful
for silence. Not for many nights had the past impinged so closely upon the
present. The wound in his soul had not healed, and to speak of himself
made it bleed anew. Memory was too poignant; the past was too close; he
wanted to forget until he had toiled into the heart of this forbidding
wilderness—until time had gone by and he dared to face his unquiet
soul. Then he listened to the steadily rising roar of the wind. How
strange and hollow! That wind was freighted with heavy sand, and he heard
it sweep, sweep, sweep by in gusts, and then blow with dull, steady blast
against the walls. The sound was provocative of thought. This moan and
rush of wind was no dream—this presence of his in a night-enshrouded
and sand-besieged house of the lonely desert was reality—this
adventure was not one of fancy. True indeed, then, must be the wild,
strange story that had led him hither. He was going on to seek, to strive,
to find. Somewhere northward in the broken fastnesses lay hidden a valley
walled in from the world. Would they be there, those lost fugitives whose
story had thrilled him? After twelve years would she be alive, a child
grown to womanhood in the solitude of a beautiful canyon? Incredible! Yet
he believed his friend’s story and he indeed knew how strange and tragic
life was. He fancied he heard her voice on the sweeping wind. She called
to him, haunted him. He admitted the improbability of her existence, but
lost nothing of the persistent intangible hope that drove him. He believed
himself a man stricken in soul, unworthy, through doubt of God, to
minister to the people who had banished him. Perhaps a labor of Hercules,
a mighty and perilous work of rescue, the saving of this lost and
imprisoned girl, would help him in his trouble. She might be his
salvation. Who could tell? Always as a boy and as a man he had fared forth
to find the treasure at the foot of the rainbow.

II. THE SAGI

Next morning the Indian girl was gone and the tracks of her pony led
north. Shefford’s first thought was to wonder if he would overtake her on
the trail; and this surprised him with the proof of how unconsciously his
resolve to go on had formed.

Presbrey made no further attempt to turn Shefford back. But he insisted on
replenishing the pack, and that Shefford take weapons. Finally Shefford
was persuaded to accept a revolver. The trader bade him good-by and stood
in the door while Shefford led his horse down the slope toward the
water-hole. Perhaps the trader believed he was watching the departure of a
man who would never return. He was still standing at the door of the post
when Shefford halted at the pool.

Upon the level floor of the valley lay thin patches of snow which had
fallen during the night. The air was biting cold, yet stimulated Shefford
while it stung him. His horse drank rather slowly and disgustedly. Then
Shefford mounted and reluctantly turned his back upon the trading-post.

As he rode away from the pool he saw a large flock of sheep approaching.
They were very closely, even densely, packed, in a solid slow-moving mass
and coming with a precision almost like a march. This fact surprised
Shefford, for there was not an Indian in sight. Presently he saw that a
dog was leading the flock, and a little later he discovered another dog in
the rear of the sheep. They were splendid, long-haired dogs, of a
wild-looking shepherd breed. He halted his horse to watch the procession
pass by. The flock covered fully an acre of ground and the sheep were
black, white, and brown. They passed him, making a little pattering roar
on the hard-caked sand. The dogs were taking the sheep in to water.

Shefford went on and was drawing close to the other side of the basin,
where the flat red level was broken by rising dunes and ridges, when he
espied a bunch of ponies. A shrill whistle told him that they had seen
him. They were wild, shaggy, with long manes and tails. They stopped,
threw up their heads, and watched him. Shefford certainly returned the
attention. There was no Indian with them. Presently, with a snort, the
leader, which appeared to be a stallion, trotted behind the others, seemed
to be driving them, and went clear round the band to get in the lead
again. He was taking them in to water, the same as the dogs had taken the
sheep.

These incidents were new and pleasing to Shefford. How ignorant he had
been of life in the wilderness! Once more he received subtle intimations
of what he might learn out in the open; and it was with a less weighted
heart that he faced the gateway between the huge yellow bluffs on his left
and the slow rise of ground to the black mesa on his right. He looked back
in time to see the trading-post, bleak and lonely on the bare slope, pass
out of sight behind the bluffs. Shefford felt no fear—he really had
little experience of physical fear—but it was certain that he
gritted his teeth and welcomed whatever was to come to him. He had lived a
narrow, insulated life with his mind on spiritual things; his family and
his congregation and his friends—except that one new friend whose
story had enthralled him—were people of quiet religious habit; the
man deep down in him had never had a chance. He breathed hard as he tried
to imagine the world opening to him, and almost dared to be glad for the
doubt that had sent him adrift.

The tracks of the Indian girl’s pony were plain in the sand. Also there
were other tracks, not so plain, and these Shefford decided had been made
by Willetts and the girl the day before. He climbed a ridge, half soft
sand and half hard, and saw right before him, rising in striking form, two
great yellow buttes, like elephant legs. He rode between them, amazed at
their height. Then before him stretched a slowly ascending valley, walled
on one side by the black mesa and on the other by low bluffs. For miles a
dark-green growth of greasewood covered the valley, and Shefford could see
where the green thinned and failed, to give place to sand. He trotted his
horse and made good time on this stretch.

The day contrasted greatly with any he had yet experienced. Gray clouds
obscured the walls of rock a few miles to the west, and Shefford saw
squalls of snow like huge veils dropping down and spreading out. The wind
cut with the keenness of a knife. Soon he was chilled to the bone. A
squall swooped and roared down upon him, and the wind that bore the
driving white pellets of snow, almost like hail, was so freezing bitter
cold that the former wind seemed warm in comparison. The squall passed as
swiftly as it had come, and it left Shefford so benumbed he could not hold
the bridle. He tumbled off his horse and walked. By and by the sun came
out and soon warmed him and melted the thin layer of snow on the sand. He
was still on the trail of the Indian girl, but hers were now the only
tracks he could see.

All morning he gradually climbed, with limited view, until at last he
mounted to a point where the country lay open to his sight on all sides
except where the endless black mesa ranged on into the north. A rugged
yellow peak dominated the landscape to the fore, but it was far away. Red
and jagged country extended westward to a huge flat-topped wall of gray
rock. Lowering swift clouds swept across the sky, like drooping mantles,
and darkened the sun. Shefford built a little fire out of dead greasewood
sticks, and with his blanket round his shoulders he hung over the blaze,
scorching his clothes and hands. He had been cold before in his life but
he had never before appreciated fire. This desert blast pierced him. The
squall enveloped him, thicker and colder and windier than the other, but,
being better fortified, he did not suffer so much. It howled away, hiding
the mesa and leaving a white desert behind. Shefford walked on, leading
his horse, until the exercise and the sun had once more warmed him.

This last squall had rendered the Indian girl’s trail difficult to follow.
The snow did not quickly melt, and, besides, sheep tracks and the tracks
of horses gave him trouble, until at last he was compelled to admit that
he could not follow her any longer. A faint path or trail led north,
however, and, following that, he soon forgot the girl. Every surmounted
ridge held a surprise for him. The desert seemed never to change in the
vast whole that encompassed him, yet near him it was always changing. From
Red Lake he had seen a peaked, walled, and canyoned country, as rough as a
stormy sea; but when he rode into that country the sharp and broken
features held to the distance.

He was glad to get out of the sand. Long narrow flats, gray with grass and
dotted with patches of greasewood, and lined by low bare ridges of yellow
rock, stretched away from him, leading toward the yellow peak that seemed
never to be gained upon.

Shefford had pictures in his mind, pictures of stone walls and wild
valleys and domed buttes, all of which had been painted in colorful and
vivid words by his friend Venters. He believed he would recognize the
distinctive and remarkable landmarks Venters had portrayed, and he was
certain that he had not yet come upon one of them. This was his second
lonely day of travel and he had grown more and more susceptible to the
influence of horizon and the different prominent points. He attributed a
gradual change in his feelings to the loneliness and the increasing
wildness. Between Tuba and Flagstaff he had met Indians and an occasional
prospector and teamster. Here he was alone, and though he felt some
strange gladness, he could not help but see the difference.

He rode on during the gray, lowering, chilly day, and toward evening the
clouds broke in the west, and a setting sun shone through the rift,
burnishing the desert to red and gold. Shefford’s instinctive but deadened
love of the beautiful in nature stirred into life, and the moment of its
rebirth was a melancholy and sweet one. Too late for the artist’s work,
but not too late for his soul!

For a place to make camp he halted near a low area of rock that lay like
an island in a sea of grass. There was an abundance of dead greasewood for
a camp-fire, and, after searching over the rock, he found little pools of
melted snow in the depressions. He took off the saddle and pack, watered
his horse, and, hobbling him as well as his inexperience permitted, he
turned him loose on the grass.

Then while he built a fire and prepared a meal the night came down upon
him. In the lee of the rock he was well sheltered from the wind, but the
air, was bitter cold. He gathered all the dead greasewood in the vicinity,
replenished the fire, and rolled in his blanket, back to the blaze. The
loneliness and the coyotes did not bother him this night. He was too tired
and cold. He went to sleep at once and did not awaken until the fire died
out. Then he rebuilt it and went to sleep again. Every half-hour all night
long he repeated this, and was glad indeed when the dawn broke.

The day began with misfortune. His horse was gone; it had been stolen, or
had worked out of sight, or had broken the hobbles and made off. From a
high stone ridge Shefford searched the grassy flats and slopes, all to no
purpose. Then he tried to track the horse, but this was equally futile. He
had expected disasters, and the first one did not daunt him. He tied most
of his pack in the blanket, threw the canteen across his shoulder, and set
forth, sure at least of one thing—that he was a very much better
traveler on foot than on horseback.

Walking did not afford him the leisure to study the surrounding country;
however, from time to time, when he surmounted a bench he scanned the
different landmarks that had grown familiar. It took hours of steady
walking to reach and pass the yellow peak that had been a kind of goal. He
saw many sheep trails and horse tracks in the vicinity of this mountain,
and once he was sure he espied an Indian watching him from a bold
ridge-top.

The day was bright and warm, with air so clear it magnified objects he
knew to be far away. The ascent was gradual; there were many narrow flats
connected by steps; and the grass grew thicker and longer. At noon
Shefford halted under the first cedar-tree, a lonely, dwarfed shrub that
seemed to have had a hard life. From this point the rise of ground was
more perceptible, and straggling cedars led the eye on to a purple slope
that merged into green of pinon and pine. Could that purple be the sage
Venters had so feelingly described, or was it merely the purple of
deceiving distance? Whatever it might be, it gave Shefford a thrill and
made him think of the strange, shy, and lovely woman Venters had won out
here in this purple-sage country.

He calculated that he had ridden thirty miles the day before and had
already traveled ten miles today, and therefore could hope to be in the
pass before night. Shefford resumed his journey with too much energy and
enthusiasm to think of being tired. And he discovered presently that the
straggling cedars and the slope beyond were much closer than he had judged
them to be. He reached the sage to find it gray instead of purple. Yet it
was always purple a little way ahead, and if he half shut his eyes it was
purple near at hand. He was surprised to find that he could not breathe
freely, or it seemed so, and soon made the discovery that the sweet,
pungent, penetrating fragrance of sage and cedar had this strange effect
upon him. This was an exceedingly dry and odorous forest, where every open
space between the clumps of cedars was choked with luxuriant sage. The
pinyons were higher up on the mesa, and the pines still higher. Shefford
appeared to lose himself. There were no trails; the black mesa on the
right and the wall of stone on the left could not be seen; but he pushed
on with what was either singular confidence or rash impulse. And he did
not know whether that slope was long or short. Once at the summit he saw
with surprise that it broke abruptly and the descent was very steep and
short on that side. Through the trees he once more saw the black mesa,
rising to the dignity of a mountain; and he had glimpses of another flat,
narrow valley, this time with a red wall running parallel with the mesa.
He could not help but hurry down to get an unobstructed view. His
eagerness was rewarded by a splendid scene, yet to his regret he could not
force himself to believe it had any relation to the pictured scenes in his
mind. The valley was half a mile wide, perhaps several miles long, and it
extended in a curve between the cedar-sloped mesa and a looming wall of
red stone. There was not a bird or a beast in sight. He found a
well-defined trail, but it had not been recently used. He passed a low
structure made of peeled logs and mud, with a dark opening like a door. It
did not take him many minutes to learn that the valley was longer than he
had calculated. He walked swiftly and steadily, in spite of the fact that
the pack had become burdensome. What lay beyond the jutting corner of the
mesa had increasing fascination for him and acted as a spur. At last he
turned the corner, only to be disappointed at sight of another cedar
slope. He had a glimpse of a single black shaft of rock rising far in the
distance, and it disappeared as his striding forward made the crest of the
slope rise toward the sky.

Again his view became restricted, and he lost the sense of a slow and
gradual uplift of rock and an increase in the scale of proportion.
Half-way up this ascent he was compelled to rest; and again the sun was
slanting low when he entered the cedar forest. Soon he was descending, and
he suddenly came into the open to face a scene that made his heart beat
thick and fast.

He saw lofty crags and cathedral spires, and a wonderful canyon winding
between huge beetling red walls. He heard the murmur of flowing water. The
trail led down to the canyon floor, which appeared to be level and green
and cut by deep washes in red earth. Could this canyon be the mouth of
Deception Pass? It bore no resemblance to any place Shefford had heard
described, yet somehow he felt rather than saw that it was the portal to
the wild vastness he had traveled so far to enter.

Not till he had descended the trail and had dropped his pack did he
realize how weary and footsore he was. Then he rested. But his eyes roved
to and fro, and his mind was active. What a wild and lonesome spot! The
low murmur of shallow water came up to him from a deep, narrow cleft.
Shadows were already making the canyon seem full of blue haze. He saw a
bare slope of stone out of which cedar-trees were growing. And as he
looked about him he became aware of a singular and very perceptible change
in the lights and shades. The sun was setting; the crags were gold-tipped;
the shadows crept upward; the sky seemed to darken swiftly; then the gold
changed to red, slowly dulled, and the grays and purples stood out.
Shefford was entranced with the beautiful changing effects, and watched
till the walls turned black and the sky grew steely and a faint star
peeped out. Then he set about the necessary camp tasks.

Dead cedars right at hand assured him a comfortable night with steady
fire; and when he had satisfied his hunger he arranged an easy seat before
the blazing logs, and gave his mind over to thought of his weird, lonely
environment.

The murmur of running water mingled in harmonious accompaniment with the
moan of the wind in the cedars—wild, sweet sounds that were balm to
his wounded spirit! They seemed a part of the silence, rather than a break
in it or a hindrance to the feeling of it. But suddenly that silence did
break to the rattle of a rock. Shefford listened, thinking some wild
animal was prowling around. He felt no alarm. Presently he heard the sound
again, and again. Then he recognized the crack of unshod hoofs upon rock.
A horse was coming down the trail. Shefford rather resented the
interruption, though he still had no alarm. He believed he was perfectly
safe. As a matter of fact, he had never in his life been anything but safe
and padded around with wool, hence, never having experienced peril, he did
not know what fear was.

Presently he saw a horse and rider come into dark prominence on the ridge
just above his camp. They were silhouetted against the starry sky. The
horseman stopped and he and his steed made a magnificent black statue,
somehow wild and strange, in Shefford’s sight. Then he came on, vanished
in the darkness under the ridge, presently to emerge into the circle of
camp-fire light.

He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire. The horse was
dark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run. The rider appeared to be an
Indian, and yet had something about him suggesting the cowboy. At once
Shefford remembered what Presbrey had said about half-breeds. A little
shock, inexplicable to Shefford, rippled over him.

He greeted his visitor, but received no answer. Shefford saw a dark, squat
figure bending forward in the saddle. The man was tense. All about him was
dark except the glint of a rifle across the saddle. The face under the
sombrero was only a shadow. Shefford kicked the fire-logs and a brighter
blaze lightened the scene. Then he saw this stranger a little more
clearly, and made out an unusually large head, broad dark face, a sinister
tight-shut mouth, and gleaming black eyes.

Those eyes were unmistakably hostile. They roved searchingly over
Shefford’s pack and then over his person. Shefford felt for the gun that
Presbrey had given him. But it was gone. He had left it back where he had
lost his horse, and had not thought of it since. Then a strange,
slow-coming cold agitation possessed Shefford. Something gripped his
throat.

Suddenly Shefford was stricken at a menacing movement on the part of the
horseman. He had drawn a gun. Shefford saw it shine darkly in the
firelight. The Indian meant to murder him. Shefford saw the grim, dark
face in a kind of horrible amaze. He felt the meaning of that drawn weapon
as he had never felt anything before in his life. And he collapsed back
into his seat with an icy, sickening terror. In a second he was dripping
wet with cold sweat. Lightning-swift thoughts flashed through his mind. It
had been one of his platitudes that he was not afraid of death. Yet here
he was a shaking, helpless coward. What had he learned about either life
or death? Would this dark savage plunge him into the unknown? It was then
that Shefford realized his hollow philosophy and the bitter-sweetness of
life. He had a brain and a soul, and between them he might have worked out
his salvation. But what were they to this ruthless night-wanderer, this
raw and horrible wildness of the desert?

Incapable of voluntary movement, with tongue cleaving to the roof of his
mouth, Shefford watched the horseman and the half-poised gun. It was not
yet leveled. Then it dawned upon Shefford that the stranger’s head was
turned a little, his ear to the wind. He was listening. His horse was
listening. Suddenly he straightened up, wheeled his horse, and trotted
away into the darkness. But he did not climb the ridge down which he had
come.

Shefford heard the click of hoofs upon the stony trail. Other horses and
riders were descending into the canyon. They had been the cause of his
deliverance, and in the relaxation of feeling he almost fainted. Then he
sat there, slowly recovering, slowly ceasing to tremble, divining that
this situation was somehow to change his attitude toward life.

Three horses, two with riders, moved in dark shapes across the skyline
above the ridge, disappeared as had Shefford’s first visitor, and then
rode into the light. Shefford saw two Indians—a man and a woman;
then with surprise recognized the latter to be the Indian girl he had met
at Red Lake. He was still more surprised to recognize in the third horse
the one he had lost at the last camp. Shefford rose, a little shaky on his
legs, to thank these Indians for a double service. The man slipped from
his saddle and his moccasined feet thudded lightly. He was tall, lithe,
erect, a singularly graceful figure, and as he advanced Shefford saw a
dark face and sharp, dark eyes. The Indian was bareheaded, with his hair
bound in a band. He resembled the girl, but appeared to have a finer face.

“How do?” he said, in a voice low and distinct. He extended his hand, and
Shefford felt a grip of steel. He returned the greeting. Then the Indian
gave Shefford the bridle of the horse, and made signs that appeared to
indicate the horse had broken his hobbles and strayed. Shefford thanked
him. Thereupon the Indian unsaddled and led the horses away, evidently to
water them. The girl remained behind. Shefford addressed her, but she was
shy and did not respond. He then set about cooking a meal for his
visitors, and was busily engaged at this when the Indian returned without
the horses. Presently Shefford resumed his seat by the fire and watched
the two eat what he had prepared. They certainly were hungry and soon had
the pans and cups empty. Then the girl drew back a little into the shadow,
while the man sat with his legs crossed and his feet tucked under him.

His dark face was smooth, yet it seemed to have lines under the surface.
Shefford was impressed. He had never seen an Indian who interested him as
this one. Looked at superficially, he appeared young, wild, silent, locked
in his primeval apathy, just a healthy savage; but looked at more
attentively, he appeared matured, even old, a strange, sad, brooding
figure, with a burden on his shoulders. Shefford found himself growing
curious.

“What place?” asked Shefford, waving his hand toward the dark opening
between the black cliffs.

“Sagi,” replied the Indian.

That did not mean anything to Shefford, and he asked if the Sagi was the
pass, but the Indian shook his head.

“Wife?” asked Shefford, pointing to the girl.

The Indian shook his head again. “Bi-la,” he said.

“What you mean?” asked Shefford. “What bi-la?”

“Sister,” replied the Indian. He spoke the word reluctantly, as if the
white man’s language did not please him, but the clearness and correct
pronunciation surprised Shefford.

“What name—what call her?” he went on.

“Glen Naspa.”

“What your name?” inquired Shefford, indicating the Indian.

“Nas Ta Bega,” answered the Indian.

“Navajo?”

The Indian bowed with what seemed pride and stately dignity.

“My name John Shefford. Come far way back toward rising sun. Come stay
here long.”

Nas Ta Bega’s dark eyes were fixed steadily upon Shefford. He reflected
that he could not remember having felt so penetrating a gaze. But neither
the Indian’s eyes nor face gave any clue to his thoughts.

“Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ,” said the Indian, and his voice rolled out
low and deep.

Shefford felt both amaze and pain. The Indian had taken him for a
missionary.

“No!… Me no missionary,” cried Shefford, and he flung up a passionately
repudiating hand.

A singular flash shot from the Indian’s dark eyes. It struck Shefford even
at this stinging moment when the past came back.

“Trade—buy wool—blanket?” queried Nas Ta Bega.

“No,” replied Shefford. “Me want ride—walk far.” He waved his hand
to indicate a wide sweep of territory. “Me sick.”

Nas Ta Bega laid a significant finger upon his lungs.

“No,” replied Shefford. “Me strong. Sick here.” And with motions of his
hands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.

Shefford received instant impression of this Indian’s intelligent
comprehension, but he could not tell just what had given him the feeling.
Nas Ta Bega rose then and walked away into the shadow. Shefford heard him
working around the dead cedar-tree, where he had probably gone to get
fire-wood. Then Shefford heard a splintering crash, which was followed by
a crunching, bumping sound. Presently he was astounded to see the Indian
enter the lighted circle dragging the whole cedar-tree, trunk first.
Shefford would have doubted the ability of two men to drag that tree, and
here came Nas Ta Bega, managing it easily. He laid the trunk on the fire,
and then proceeded to break off small branches, to place them
advantageously where the red coals kindled them into a blaze.

The Indian’s next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently meant
to use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground, lay down
upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-haired
saddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became motionless. His
sister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she stayed farther away from
the fire, and she had a larger blanket, which covered her well. It
appeared to Shefford that they went to sleep at once.

Shefford felt as tired as he had ever been, but he did not think he could
soon drop into slumber, and in fact he did not want to.

There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he had not
experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling—the
aftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icy grip.
Nas Ta Bega’s arrival had frightened away that dark and silent prowler of
the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had saved his life. The
measure of his gratitude was a source of wonder to him. Had he cared so
much for life? Yes—he had, when face to face with death. That was
something to know. It helped him. And he gathered from his strange feeling
that the romantic quest which had brought him into the wilderness might
turn out to be an antidote for the morbid bitterness of heart.

With new sensations had come new thoughts. Right then it was very pleasant
to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire. There was a
deep-seated ache of fatigue in his bones. What joy it was to rest! He had
felt the dry scorch of desert thirst and the pang of hunger. How wonderful
to learn the real meaning of water and food! He had just finished the
longest, hardest day’s work of his life! Had that anything to do with a
something almost like peace which seemed to hover near in the shadows,
trying to come to him? He had befriended an Indian girl, and now her
brother had paid back the service. Both the giving and receiving were
somehow sweet to Shefford. They opened up hitherto vague channels of
thought. For years he had imagined he was serving people, when he had
never lifted a hand. A blow given in the defense of an Indian girl had
somehow operated to make a change in John Shefford’s existence. It had
liberated a spirit in him. Moreover, it had worked its influence outside
his mind. The Indian girl and her brother had followed his trail to return
his horse, perhaps to guide him safely, but, unknowingly perhaps, they had
done infinitely more than that for him. As Shefford’s eye wandered over
the dark, still figures of the sleepers he had a strange, dreamy
premonition, or perhaps only a fancy, that there was to be more come of
this fortunate meeting.

For the rest, it was good to be there in the speaking silence, to feel the
heat on his outstretched palms and the cold wind on his cheek, to see the
black wall lifting its bold outline and the crags reaching for the white
stars.

III. KAYENTA

The stamping of horses awoke Shefford. He saw a towering crag, rosy in the
morning light, like a huge red spear splitting the clear blue of sky. He
got up, feeling cramped and sore, yet with unfamiliar exhilaration. The
whipping air made him stretch his hands to the fire. An odor of coffee and
broiled meat mingled with the fragrance of wood smoke. Glen Naspa was on
her knees broiling a rabbit on a stick over the red coals. Nas Ta Bega was
saddling the ponies. The canyon appeared to be full of purple shadows
under one side of dark cliffs and golden streaks of mist on the other
where the sun struck high up on the walls.

“Good morning,” said Shefford.

Glen Naspa shyly replied in Navajo.

“How,” was Nas Ta Bega’s greeting.

In daylight the Indian lost some of the dark somberness of face that had
impressed Shefford. He had a noble head, in poise like that of an eagle, a
bold, clean-cut profile, and stern, close-shut lips. His eyes were the
most striking and attractive feature about him; they were coal-black and
piercing; the intent look out of them seemed to come from a keen and
inquisitive mind.

Shefford ate breakfast with the Indians, and then helped with the few
preparations for departure. Before they mounted, Nas Ta Bega pointed to
horse tracks in the dust. They were those that had been made by Shefford’s
threatening visitor of the night before. Shefford explained by word and
sign, and succeeded at least in showing that he had been in danger. Nas Ta
Bega followed the tracks a little way and presently returned.

“Shadd,” he said, with an ominous shake of his head. Shefford did not
understand whether he meant the name of his visitor or something else, but
the menace connected with the word was clear enough.

Glen Naspa mounted her pony, and it was a graceful action that pleased
Shefford. He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle. Then Nas Ta
Bega got up and pointed northward.

“Kayenta?” he inquired.

Shefford nodded and then they were off, with Glen Naspa in the lead. They
did not climb the trail which they had descended, but took one leading to
the right along the base of the slope. Shefford saw down into the red wash
that bisected the canyon floor. It was a sheer wall of red clay or loam, a
hundred feet high, and at the bottom ran a swift, shallow stream of
reddish water. Then for a time a high growth of greasewood hid the
surroundings from Shefford’s sight. Presently the trail led out into the
open, and Shefford saw that he was at the neck of a wonderful valley that
gradually widened with great jagged red peaks on the left and the black
mesa, now a mountain, running away to the right. He turned to find that
the opening of the Sagi could no longer be seen, and he was conscious of a
strong desire to return and explore that canyon.

Soon Glen Naspa put her pony to a long, easy, swinging canter and her
followers did likewise. As they got outward into the valley Shefford lost
the sense of being overshadowed and crowded by the nearness of the huge
walls and crags. The trail appeared level underfoot, but at a distance it
was seen to climb. Shefford found where it disappeared over the foot of a
slope that formed a graceful rising line up to the cedared flank of the
mesa. The valley floor, widening away to the north, remained level and
green. Beyond rose the jagged range of red peaks, all strangely cut and
slanting. These distant deceiving features of the country held Shefford’s
gaze until the Indian drew his attention to things near at hand. Then
Shefford saw flocks of sheep dotting the gray-green valley, and bands of
beautiful long-maned, long-tailed ponies.

For several miles the scene did not change except that Shefford imagined
he came to see where the upland plain ended or at least broke its level.
He was right, for presently the Indian pointed, and Shefford went on to
halt upon the edge of a steep slope leading down into a valley vast in its
barren gray reaches.

“Kayenta,” said Nas Ta Bega.

Shefford at first saw nothing except the monotonous gray valley reaching
far to the strange, grotesque monuments of yellow cliff. Then close under
the foot of the slope he espied two squat stone houses with red roofs, and
a corral with a pool of water shining in the sun.

The trail leading down was steep and sandy, but it was not long.
Shefford’s sweeping eyes appeared to take in everything at once—the
crude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirty wool,
the Indians lolling around, the tents, and wagons, and horses, little lazy
burros and dogs, and scattered everywhere saddles, blankets, guns, and
packs.

Then a white man came out of the door. He waved a hand and shouted. Dust
and wool and flour were thick upon him. He was muscular and
weather-beaten, and appeared young in activity rather than face. A gun
swung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in his belt.
Shefford looked into a face that he thought he had seen before, until he
realized the similarity was only the bronze and hard line and rugged cast
common to desert men. The gray searching eyes went right through him.

“Glad to see you. Get down and come in. Just heard from an Indian that you
were coming. I’m the trader Withers,” he said to Shefford. His voice was
welcoming and the grip of his hand made Shefford’s ache.

Shefford told his name and said he was as glad as he was lucky to arrive
at Kayenta.

“Hello! Nas Ta Bega!” exclaimed Withers. His tone expressed a surprise his
face did not show. “Did this Indian bring you in?”

Withers shook hands with the Navajo while Shefford briefly related what he
owed to him. Then Withers looked at Nas Ta Bega and spoke to him in the
Indian tongue.

“Shadd,” said Nas Ta Bega. Withers let out a dry little laugh and his
strong hand tugged at his mustache.

“Who’s Shadd?” asked Shefford.

“He’s a half-breed Ute—bad Indian, outlaw, murderer. He’s in with a
gang of outlaws who hide in the San Juan country…. Reckon you’re lucky.
How’d you come to be there in the Sagi alone?”

“I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised against it,
but I came anyway.”

“Well.” Withers’s gray glance was kind, if it did express the
foolhardiness of Shefford’s act. “Come into the house…. Never mind the
horse. My wife will sure be glad to see you.”

Withers led Shefford by the first stone house, which evidently was the
trading-store, into the second. The room Shefford entered was large, with
logs smoldering in a huge open fireplace, blankets covering every foot of
floor space, and Indian baskets and silver ornaments everywhere, and
strange Indian designs painted upon the whitewashed walls. Withers called
his wife and made her acquainted with Shefford. She was a slight, comely
little woman, with keen, earnest, dark eyes. She seemed to be serious and
quiet, but she made Shefford feel at home immediately. He refused,
however, to accept the room offered him, saying that he me meant to sleep
out under the open sky. Withers laughed at this and said he understood.
Shefford, remembering Presbrey’s hunger for news of the outside world,
told this trader and his wife all he could think of; and he was listened
to with that close attention a traveler always gained in the remote
places.

“Sure am glad you rode in,” said Withers, for the fourth time. “Now you
make yourself at home. Stay here—come over to the store—do
what you like. I’ve got to work. To-night we’ll talk.”

Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting as
Presbrey’s, though much smaller and more primitive. It was full of
everything, and smelled strongly of sheep and goats. There was a narrow
aisle between sacks of flour and blankets on one side and a high counter
on the other. Behind this counter Withers stood to wait upon the buying
Indians. They sold blankets and skins and bags of wool, and in exchange
took silver money. Then they lingered and with slow, staid reluctance
bought one thing and then another—flour, sugar, canned goods,
coffee, tobacco, ammunition. The counter was never without two or three
Indians leaning on their dark, silver-braceleted arms. But as they were
slow to sell and buy and go, so were others slow to come in. Their voices
were soft and low and it seemed to Shefford they were whispering. He liked
to hear them and to look at the banded heads, the long, twisted rolls of
black hair tied with white cords, the still dark faces and watchful eyes,
the silver ear-rings, the slender, shapely brown hands, the lean and
sinewy shapes, the corduroys with a belt and gun, and the small,
close-fitting buckskin moccasins buttoned with coins. These Indians all
appeared young, and under the quiet, slow demeanor there was fierce blood
and fire.

By and by two women came in, evidently squaw and daughter. The former was
a huge, stout Indian with a face that was certainly pleasant if not jolly.

She had the corners of a blanket tied under her chin, and in the folds
behind on her broad back was a naked Indian baby, round and black of head,
brown-skinned, with eyes as bright as beads. When the youngster caught
sight of Shefford he made a startled dive into the sack of the blanket.
Manifestly, however, curiosity got the better of fear, for presently
Shefford caught a pair of wondering dark eyes peeping at him.

“They’re good spenders, but slow,” said Withers. “The Navajos are careful
and cautious. That’s why they’re rich. This squaw, Yan As Pa, has flocks
of sheep and more mustangs than she knows about.”

“Mustangs. So that’s what you call the ponies?” replied Shefford.

“Yep. They’re mustangs, and mostly wild as jack-rabbits.”

Shefford strolled outside and made the acquaintance of Withers’s helper, a
Mormon named Whisner. He was a stockily built man past maturity, and his
sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open desert. He was engaged
in weighing sacks of wool brought in by the Indians. Near by stood a
framework of poles from which an immense bag was suspended. From the top
of this bag protruded the head and shoulders of an Indian who appeared to
be stamping and packing wool with his feet. He grinned at the curious
Shefford. But Shefford was more interested in the Mormon. So far as he
knew, Whisner was the first man of that creed he had ever met, and he
could scarcely hide his eagerness. Venters’s stories had been of a
long-past generation of Mormons, fanatical, ruthless, and unchangeable.
Shefford did not expect to meet Mormons of this kind. But any man of that
religion would have interested him. Besides this, Whisner seemed to bring
him closer to that wild secret canyon he had come West to find. Shefford
was somewhat amazed and discomfited to have his polite and friendly
overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been an Indian. He was cold,
incommunicative, aloof; and there was something about him that made the
sensitive Shefford feel his presence was resented.

Presently Shefford strolled on to the corral, which was full of shaggy
mustangs. They snorted and kicked at him. He had a half-formed wish that
he would never be called upon to ride one of those wild brutes, and then
he found himself thinking that he would ride one of them, and after a
while any of them. Shefford did not understand himself, but he fought his
natural instinctive reluctance to meet obstacles, peril, suffering.

He traced the white-bordered little stream that made the pool in the
corral, and when he came to where it oozed out of the sand under the bluff
he decided that was not the spring which had made Kayenta famous.
Presently down below the trading-post he saw a trough from which burros
were drinking. Here he found the spring, a deep well of eddying water
walled in by stones, and the overflow made a shallow stream meandering
away between its borders of alkali, like a crust of salt. Shefford tasted
the water. It bit, but it was good.

Shefford had no trouble in making friends with the lazy sleepy-eyed
burros. They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but the
mustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes; they
raised long ears and looked vicious. He let them alone.

Evidently this trading-post was a great deal busier than Red Lake.
Shefford counted a dozen Indians lounging outside, and there were others
riding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were transported out of
the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A wide, hard-packed road led
off to the east, and another, not so clearly defined, wound away to the
north. And Indian trails streaked off in all directions.

Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so across
the valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of wildness and
loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country. It held something
for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned girl from a wild
canyon.

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night after supper, when Withers and Shefford sat alone before the
blazing logs in the huge fireplace, the trader laid his hand on Shefford’s
and said, with directness and force:

“I’ve lived my life in the desert. I’ve met many men and have been a
friend to most…. You’re no prospector or trader or missionary?”

“No,” replied Shefford.

“You’ve had trouble?”

“Yes.”

“Have you come in here to hide? Don’t be afraid to tell me. I won’t give
you away.”

“I didn’t come to hide.”

“Then no one is after you? You’ve done no wrong?”

“Perhaps I wronged myself, but no one else,” replied Shefford, steadily.

“I reckoned so. Well, tell me, or keep your secret—it’s all one to
me.”

Shefford felt a desire to unburden himself. This man was strong,
persuasive, kindly. He drew Shefford.

“You’re welcome in Kayenta,” went on Withers. “Stay as long as you like. I
take no pay from a white man. If you want work I have it aplenty.”

“Thank you. That is good. I need to work. We’ll talk of it later. … But
just yet I can’t tell you why I came to Kayenta, what I want to do, how
long I shall stay. My thoughts put in words would seem so like dreams.
Maybe they are dreams. Perhaps I’m only chasing a phantom—perhaps
I’m only hunting the treasure at the foot of the rainbow.”

“Well, this is the country for rainbows,” laughed Withers. “In summer from
June to August when it storms we have rainbows that’ll make you think
you’re in another world. The Navajos have rainbow mountains, rainbow
canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails. It sure is rainbow
country.”

That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it was again—something
tangible at the bottom of his dream.

Withers did not wait for Shefford to say any more, and almost as if he
read his visitor’s mind he began to talk about the wild country he called
home.

He had lived at Kayenta for several years—hard and profitless years
by reason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all but
for the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendly
with the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had been brought
up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affection by both
tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more of the Indians’
habits, religion, and life than any white person in the West. Both tribes
were friendly and peaceable, but there were bad Indians, half-breeds, and
outlaws that made the trading-post a venture Withers had long considered
precarious, and he wanted to move and intended to some day. His nearest
neighbors in New Mexico and Colorado were a hundred miles distant and at
some seasons the roads were impassable. To the north, however, twenty
miles or so, was situated a Mormon village named Stonebridge. It lay
across the Utah line. Withers did some business with this village, but
scarcely enough to warrant the risks he had to run. During the last year
he had lost several pack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after
it left Stonebridge.

“Stonebridge!” exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard that
name. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another village
Shefford longed to speak of to this trader.

“Yes—Stonebridge,” replied Withers. “Ever heard the name?”

“I think so. Are there other villages in—in that part of the
country?”

“A few, but not close. Glaze is now only a water-hole. Bluff and
Monticello are far north across the San Juan…. There used to be another
village—but that wouldn’t interest you.”

“Maybe it would,” replied Shefford, quietly.

But his hint was not taken by the trader. Withers suddenly showed a
semblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.

“Withers, pardon an impertinence—I am deeply serious…. Are you a
Mormon?”

“Indeed I’m not,” replied the trader, instantly.

“Are you for the Mormons or against them?”

“Neither. I get along with them. I know them. I believe they are a
misunderstood people.”

“That’s for them.”

“No. I’m only fair-minded.”

Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, but it was too
strong.

“You said there used to be another village…. Was the name of it—Cottonwoods?”

Withers gave a start and faced round to stare at Shefford in blank
astonishment.

“Say, did you give me a straight story about yourself?” he queried,
sharply.

“So far as I went,” replied Shefford.

“You’re no spy on the lookout for sealed wives?”

“Absolutely not. I don’t even know what you mean by sealed wives.”

“Well, it’s damn strange that you’d know the name Cottonwoods…. Yes,
that’s the name of the village I meant—the one that used to be. It’s
gone now, all except a few stone walls.”

“What became of it?”

“Torn down by Mormons years ago. They destroyed it and moved away. I’ve
heard Indians talk about a grand spring that was there once. It’s gone,
too. Its name was—let me see—”

“Amber Spring,” interrupted Shefford.

“By George, you’re right!” rejoined the trader, again amazed. “Shefford,
this beats me. I haven’t heard that name for ten years. I can’t help
seeing what a tenderfoot—stranger—you are to the desert. Yet,
here you are—speaking of what you should know nothing of…. And
there’s more behind this.”

Shefford rose, unable to conceal his agitation.

“Did you ever hear of a rider named Venters?”

“Rider? You mean a cowboy? Venters. No, I never heard that name.”

“Did you ever hear of a gunman named Lassiter?” queried Shefford, with
increasing emotion.

“No.”

“Did you ever hear of a Mormon woman named—Jane Withersteen?”

“No.”

Shefford drew his breath sharply. He had followed a gleam—he had
caught a fleeting glimpse of it.

“Did you ever hear of a child—a girl—a woman—called Fay
Larkin?”

Withers rose slowly with a paling face.

“If you’re a spy it’ll go hard with you—though I’m no Mormon,” he
said, grimly.

Shefford lifted a shaking hand.

“I WAS a clergyman. Now I’m nothing—a wanderer—least of all a
spy.”

Withers leaned closer to see into the other man’s eyes; he looked long and
then appeared satisfied.

“I’ve heard the name Fay Larkin,” he said, slowly. “I reckon that’s all
I’ll say till you tell your story.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Shefford stood with his back to the fire and he turned the palms of his
hands to catch the warmth. He felt cold. Withers had affected him
strangely. What was the meaning of the trader’s somber gravity? Why was
the very mention of Mormons attended by something austere and secret?

“My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four,” began Shefford. “My family—”

Here a knock on the door interrupted Shefford.

“Come in,” called Withers.

The door opened and like a shadow Nas Ta Bega slipped in. He said
something in Navajo to the trader.

“How,” he said to Shefford, and extended his hand. He was stately, but
there was no mistaking his friendliness. Then he sat down before the fire,
doubled his legs under him after the Indian fashion, and with dark eyes on
the blazing logs seemed to lose himself in meditation.

“He likes the fire,” explained Withers. “Whenever he comes to Kayenta he
always visits me like this…. Don’t mind him. Go on with your story.”

“My family were plain people, well-to-do, and very religious,” went on
Shefford. “When I was a boy we moved from the country to a town called
Beaumont, Illinois. There was a college in Beaumont and eventually I was
sent to it to study for the ministry. I wanted to be—— But
never mind that…. By the time I was twenty-two I was ready for my career
as a clergyman. I preached for a year around at different places and then
got a church in my home town of Beaumont. I became exceedingly good
friends with a man named Venters, who had recently come to Beaumont. He
was a singular man. His wife was a strange, beautiful woman, very
reserved, and she had wonderful dark eyes. They had money and were devoted
to each other, and perfectly happy. They owned the finest horses ever seen
in Illinois, and their particular enjoyment seemed to be riding. They were
always taking long rides. It was something worth going far for to see Mrs.
Venters on a horse.

“It was through my own love of horses that I became friendly with Venters.
He and his wife attended my church, and as I got to see more of them,
gradually we grew intimate. And it was not until I did get intimate with
them that I realized that both seemed to be haunted by the past. They were
sometimes sad even in their happiness. They drifted off into dreams. They
lived back in another world. They seemed to be listening. Indeed, they
were a singularly interesting couple, and I grew genuinely fond of them.
By and by they had a little girl whom they named Jane. The coming of the
baby made a change in my friends. They were happier, and I observed that
the haunting shadow did not so often return.

“Venters had spoken of a journey west that he and his wife meant to take
some time. But after the baby came he never mentioned his wife in
connection with the trip. I gathered that he felt compelled to go to clear
up a mystery or to find something—I did not make out just what. But
eventually, and it was about a year ago, he told me his story—the
strangest, wildest, and most tragic I ever heard. I can’t tell it all now.
It is enough to say that fifteen years before he had been a rider for a
rich Mormon woman named Jane Withersteen, of this village Cottonwoods. She
had adopted a beautiful Gentile child named Fay Larkin. Her interest in
Gentiles earned the displeasure of her churchmen, and as she was proud
there came a breach. Venters and a gunman named Lassiter became involved
in her quarrel. Finally Venters took to the canyon. Here in the wilds he
found the strange girl he eventually married. For a long time they lived
in a wonderful hidden valley, the entrance to which was guarded by a huge
balancing rock. Venters got away with the girl. But Lassiter and Jane
Withersteen and the child Fay Larkin were driven into the canyon. They
escaped to the valley where Venters had lived. Lassiter rolled the
balancing rock, and, crashing down the narrow trail, it loosened the
weathered walls and closed the narrow outlet for ever.”

IV. NEW FRIENDS

Shefford ended his narrative out of breath, pale, and dripping with sweat.
Withers sat leaning forward with an expression of intense interest. Nas Ta
Bega’s easy, graceful pose had succeeded to one of strained rigidity. He
seemed a statue of bronze. Could a few intelligible words, Shefford
wondered, have created that strange, listening posture?

“Venters got out of Utah, of course, as you know,” went on Shefford. “He
got out, knowing—as I feel I would have known—that Jane,
Lassiter, and little Fay Larkin were shut up, walled up in Surprise
Valley. For years Venters considered it would not have been safe for him
to venture to rescue them. He had no fears for their lives. They could
live in Surprise Valley. But Venters always intended to come back with
Bess and find the valley and his friends. No wonder he and Bess were
haunted. However, when his wife had the baby that made a difference. It
meant he had to go alone. And he was thinking seriously of starting when—when
there were developments that made it desirable for me to leave Beaumont.
Venters’s story haunted me as he had been haunted. I dreamed of that wild
valley—of little Fay Larkin grown to womanhood—such a woman as
Bess Venters was. And the longing to come was great…. And, Withers—here
I am.”

The trader reached out and gave Shefford the grip of a man in whom emotion
was powerful, but deep and difficult to express.

“Listen to this…. I wish I could help you. Life is a queer deal. …
Shefford, I’ve got to trust you. Over here in the wild canyon country
there’s a village of Mormons’ sealed wives. It’s in Arizona, perhaps
twenty miles from here, and near the Utah line. When the United States
government began to persecute, or prosecute, the Mormons for polygamy, the
Mormons over here in Stonebridge took their sealed wives and moved them
out of Utah, just across the line. They built houses, established a
village there. I’m the only Gentile who knows about it. And I pack
supplies every few weeks in to these women. There are perhaps fifty women,
mostly young—second or third or fourth wives of Mormons—sealed
wives. And I want you to understand that sealed means SEALED in all that
religion or loyalty can get out of the word. There are also some old women
and old men in the village, but they hardly count. And there’s a flock of
the finest children you ever saw in your life.

“The idea of the Mormons must have been to escape prosecution. The law of
the government is one wife for each man—no more. All over Utah
polygamists have been arrested. The Mormons are deeply concerned. I
believe they are a good, law-abiding people. But this law is a direct blow
at their religion. In my opinion they can’t obey both. And therefore they
have not altogether given up plural wives. Perhaps they will some day. I
have no proof, but I believe the Mormons of Stonebridge pay secret night
visits to their sealed wives across the line in the lonely, hidden
village.

“Now once over in Stonebridge I overheard some Mormons talking about a
girl who was named Fay Larkin. I never forgot the name. Later I heard the
name in this sealed-wife village. But, as I told you, I never heard of
Lassiter or Jane Withersteen. Still, if Mormons had found them I would
never have heard of it. And Deception Pass—that might be the
Sagi…. I’m not surprised at your rainbow-chasing adventure. It’s a great
story…. This Fay Larkin I’ve heard of MIGHT be your Fay Larkin—I
almost believe so. Shefford, I’ll help you find out.”

“Yes, yes—I must know,” replied Shefford. “Oh, I hope, I pray we can
find her! But—I’d rather she was dead—if she’s not still
hidden in the valley.”

“Naturally. You’ve dreamed yourself into rescuing this lost Fay Larkin….
But, Shefford, you’re old enough to know life doesn’t work out as you want
it to. One way or another I fear you’re in for a bitter disappointment.”

“Withers, take me to the village.”

“Shefford, you’re liable to get in bad out here,” said the trader,
gravely.

“I couldn’t be any more ruined than I am now,” replied Shefford,
passionately.

“But there’s risk in this—risk such as you never had,” persisted
Withers.

“I’ll risk anything.”

“Reckon this is a funny deal for a sheep-trader to have on his hands,”
continued Withers. “Shefford, I like you. I’ve a mind to see you through
this. It’s a damn strange story…. I’ll tell you what—I will help
you. I’ll give you a job packing supplies in to the village. I meant to
turn that over to a Mormon cowboy—Joe Lake. The job shall be yours,
and I’ll go with you first trip. Here’s my hand on it…. Now, Shefford,
I’m more curious about you than I was before you told your story. What
ruined you? As we’re to be partners, you can tell me now. I’ll keep your
secret. Maybe I can do you good.”

Shefford wanted to confess, yet it was hard. Perhaps, had he not been so
agitated, he would not have answered to impulse. But this trader was a man—a
man of the desert—he would understand.

“I told you I was a clergyman,” said Shefford in low voice. “I didn’t want
to be one, but they made me one. I did my best. I failed…. I had doubts
of religion—of the Bible—of God, as my Church believed in
them. As I grew older thought and study convinced me of the narrowness of
religion as my congregation lived it. I preached what I believed. I
alienated them. They put me out, took my calling from me, disgraced me,
ruined me.”

“So that’s all!” exclaimed Withers, slowly. “You didn’t believe in the God
of the Bible…. Well, I’ve been in the desert long enough to know there
IS a God, but probably not the one your Church worships. … Shefford, go
to the Navajo for a faith!”

Shefford had forgotten the presence of Nas Ta Bega, and perhaps Withers
had likewise. At this juncture the Indian rose to his full height, and he
folded his arms to stand with the somber pride of a chieftain while his
dark, inscrutable eyes were riveted upon Shefford. At that moment he
seemed magnificent. How infinitely more he seemed than just a common
Indian who had chanced to befriend a white man! The difference was obscure
to Shefford. But he felt that it was there in the Navajo’s mind. Nas Ta
Bega’s strange look was not to be interpreted. Presently he turned and
passed from the room.

“By George!” cried Withers, suddenly, and he pounded his knee with his
fist. “I’d forgotten.”

“What?” ejaculated Shefford.

“Why, that Indian understood every word we said. He knows English. He’s
educated. Well, if this doesn’t beat me…. Let me tell you about Nas Ta
Bega.”

Withers appeared to be recalling something half forgotten.

“Years ago, in fifty-seven, I think, Kit Carson with his soldiers chased
the Navajo tribes and rounded them up to be put on reservations. But he
failed to catch all the members of one tribe. They escaped up into wild
canyon like the Sagi. The descendants of these fugitives live there now
and are the finest Indians on earth—the finest because unspoiled by
the white man. Well, as I got the story, years after Carson’s round-up one
of his soldiers guided some interested travelers in here. When they left
they took an Indian boy with them to educate. From what I know of Navajos
I’m inclined to think the boy was taken against his parents’ wish. Anyway,
he was taken. That boy was Nas Ta Bega. The story goes that he was
educated somewhere. Years afterward, and perhaps not long before I came in
here, he returned to his people. There have been missionaries and other
interested fools who have given Indians a white man’s education. In all
the instances I know of, these educated Indians returned to their tribes,
repudiating the white man’s knowledge, habits, life, and religion. I have
heard that Nas Ta Bega came back, laid down the white man’s clothes along
with the education, and never again showed that he had known either.

“You have just seen how strangely he acted. It’s almost certain he heard
our conversation. Well, it doesn’t matter. He won’t tell. He can hardly be
made to use an English word. Besides, he’s a noble red man, if there ever
was one. He has been a friend in need to me. If you stay long out here
you’ll learn something from the Indians. Nas Ta Bega has befriended you,
too, it seems. I thought he showed unusual interest in you.”

“Perhaps that was because I saved his sister—well, to be charitable,
from the rather rude advances of a white man,” said Shefford, and he
proceeded to tell of the incident that occurred at Red Lake.

“Willetts!” exclaimed Withers, with much the same expression that Presbrey
had used. “I never met him. But I know about him. He’s—well, the
Indians don’t like him much. Most of the missionaries are good men—good
for the Indians, in a way, but sometimes one drifts out here who is bad. A
bad missionary teaching religion to savages! Queer, isn’t it? The queerest
part is the white people’s blindness—the blindness of those who send
the missionaries. Well, I dare say Willetts isn’t very good. When Presbrey
said that was Willetts’s way of teaching religion he meant just what he
said. If Willetts drifts over here he’ll be risking much…. This you told
me explains Nas Ta Bega’s friendliness toward you, and also his bringing
his sister Glen Naspa to live with relatives up in the pass. She had been
living near Red Lake.”

“Do you mean Nas Ta Bega wants to keep his sister far removed from
Willetts?” inquired Shefford.

“I mean that,” replied Withers, “and I hope he’s not too late.”

Later Shefford went outdoors to walk and think. There was no moon, but the
stars made light enough to cast his shadow on the ground. The dark,
illimitable expanse of blue sky seemed to be glittering with numberless
points of fire. The air was cold and still. A dreaming silence lay over
the land. Shefford saw and felt all these things, and their effect was
continuous and remained with him and helped calm him. He was conscious of
a burden removed from his mind. Confession of his secret had been like
tearing a thorn from his flesh, but, once done, it afforded him relief and
a singular realization that out here it did not matter much. In a crowd of
men all looking at him and judging him by their standards he had been made
to suffer. Here, if he were judged at all, it would be by what he could
do, how he sustained himself and helped others.

He walked far across the valley toward the low bluffs, but they did not
seem to get any closer. And, finally, he stopped beside a stone and looked
around at the strange horizon and up at the heavens. He did not feel
utterly aloof from them, nor alone in a waste, nor a useless atom amid
incomprehensible forces. Something like a loosened mantle fell from about
him, dropping down at his feet; and all at once he was conscious of
freedom. He did not understand in the least why abasement left him, but it
was so. He had come a long way, in bitterness, in despair, believing
himself to be what men had called him. The desert and the stars and the
wind, the silence of the night, the loneliness of this vast country where
there was room for a thousand cities—these somehow vaguely, yet
surely, bade him lift his head. They withheld their secret, but they made
a promise. The thing which he had been feeling every day and every night
was a strange enveloping comfort. And it was at this moment that Shefford,
divining whence his help was to come, embraced all that wild and speaking
nature around and above him and surrendered himself utterly.

“I am young. I am free. I have my life to live,” he said. “I’ll be a man.
I’ll take what comes. Let me learn here!”

When he had spoken out, settled once and for ever his attitude toward his
future, he seemed to be born again, wonderfully alive to the influences
around him, ready to trust what yet remained a mystery.

Then his thoughts reverted to Fay Larkin. Could this girl be known to the
Mormons? It was possible. Fay Larkin was an unusual name. Deep into
Shefford’s heart had sunk the story Venters had told. Shefford found that
he had unconsciously created a like romance—he had been loving a
wild and strange and lonely girl, like beautiful Bess Venters. It was a
shock to learn the truth, but, as it had been only a dream, it could
hardly be vital.

Shefford retraced his steps toward the post. Halfway back he espied a
tall, dark figure moving toward him, and presently the shape and the step
seemed familiar. Then he recognized Nas Ta Bega. Soon they were face to
face. Shefford felt that the Indian had been trailing him over the sand,
and that this was to be a significant meeting. Remembering Withers’s
revelation about the Navajo, Shefford scarcely knew how to approach him
now. There was no difference to be made out in Nas Ta Bega’s dark face and
inscrutable eyes, yet there was a difference to be felt in his presence.
But the Indian did not speak, and turned to walk by Shefford’s side.
Shefford could not long be silent.

“Nas Ta Bega, were you looking for me?” he asked.

“You had no gun,” replied the Indian.

But for his very low voice, his slow speaking of the words, Shefford would
have thought him a white man. For Shefford there was indeed an instinct in
this meeting, and he turned to face the Navajo.

“Withers told me you had been educated, that you came back to the desert,
that you never showed your training…. Nas Ta Bega, did you understand
all I told Withers?”

“Yes,” replied the Indian.

“You won’t betray me?”

“I am a Navajo.”

“Nas Ta Bega, you trail me—you say I had no gun.” Shefford wanted to
ask this Indian if he cared to be the white man’s friend, but the question
was not easy to put, and, besides, seemed unnecessary. “I am alone and
strange in this wild country. I must learn.”

“Nas Ta Bega will show you the trails and the water-holes and how to hide
from Shadd.”

“For money—for silver you will do this?” inquired Shefford.

Shefford felt that the Indian’s silence was a rebuke. He remembered
Withers’s singular praise of this red man. He realized he must change his
idea of Indians.

“Nas Ta Bega, I know nothing. I feel like a child in the wilderness. When
I speak it is out of the mouths of those who have taught me. I must find a
new voice and a new life…. You heard my story to Withers. I am an
outcast from my own people. If you will be my friend—be so.”

The Indian clasped Shefford’s hand and held it in a response that was more
beautiful for its silence. So they stood for a moment in the starlight.

“Nas Ta Bega, what did Withers mean when he said go to the Navajo for a
faith?” asked Shefford.

“He meant the desert is my mother…. Will you go with Nas Ta Bega into
the canyon and the mountains?”

“Indeed I will.”

They unclasped hands and turned toward the trading-post.

“Nas Ta Bega, have you spoken my tongue to any other white man since you
returned to your home?” asked Shefford.

“No.”

“Why do you—why are you different for me?”

The Indian maintained silence.

“Is it because of—of Glen Naspa?” inquired Shefford.

Nas Ta Bega stalked on, still silent, but Shefford divined that, although
his service to Glen Naspa would never be forgotten, still it was not
wholly responsible for the Indian’s subtle sympathy.

“Bi Nai! The Navajo will call his white friend Bi Nai—brother,” said
Nas Ta Bega, and he spoke haltingly, not as if words were hard to find,
but strange to speak. “I was stolen from my mother’s hogan and taken to
California. They kept me ten years in a mission at San Bernardino and four
years in a school. They said my color and my hair were all that was left
of the Indian in me. But they could not see my heart. They took fourteen
years of my life. They wanted to make me a missionary among my own people.
But the white man’s ways and his life and his God are not the Indian’s.
They never can be.”

How strangely productive of thought for Shefford to hear the Indian talk!
What fatality in this meeting and friendship! Upon Nas Ta Bega had been
forced education, training, religion, that had made him something more and
something less than an Indian. It was something assimilated from the white
man which made the Indian unhappy and alien in his own home—something
meant to be good for him and his kind that had ruined him. For Shefford
felt the passion and the tragedy of this Navajo.

“Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!” Nas Ta Bega’s low voice was deep and
wonderful with its intensity of feeling. “The white man robbed the Indian
of lands and homes, drove him into the deserts, made him a gaunt and
sleepless spiller of blood…. The blood is all spilled now, for the
Indian is broken. But the white man sells him rum and seduces his
daughters…. He will not leave the Indian in peace with his own God!…
Bi Nai, the Indian is dying!”

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night Shefford lay in his blankets out under the open sky and the
stars. The earth had never meant much to him, and now it was a bed. He had
preached of the heavens, but until now had never studied them. An Indian
slept beside him. And not until the gray of morning had blotted out the
starlight did Shefford close his eyes.

. . . . . . . . . . .

With break of the next day came full, varied, and stirring incidents to
Shefford. He was strong, though unskilled at most kinds of outdoor tasks.
Withers had work for ten men, if they could have been found. Shefford dug
and packed and lifted till he was so sore and tired that rest was a
blessing.

He never succeeded in getting on a friendly footing with the Mormon
Whisner, though he kept up his agreeable and kindly advances. He listened
to the trader’s wife as she told him about the Indians, and what he
learned he did not forget. And his wonder and respect increased in
proportion to his knowledge.

One day there rode into Kayenta the Mormon for whom Withers had been
waiting. His name was Joe Lake. He appeared young, and slipped off his
superb bay with a grace and activity that were astounding in one of his
huge bulk. He had a still, smooth face, with the color of red bronze and
the expression of a cherub; big, soft, dark eyes; and a winning smile. He
was surprisingly different from Whisner or any Mormon character that
Shefford had naturally conceived. His costume was that of the cowboy on
active service; and he packed a gun at his hip. The hand-shake he gave
Shefford was an ordeal for that young man and left him with his whole
right side momentarily benumbed.

“I sure am glad to meet you,” he said in a lazy, mild voice. And he was
taking friendly stock of Shefford when the bay mustang reached with
vicious muzzle to bite at him. Lake gave a jerk on the bridle that almost
brought the mustang to his knees. He reared then, snorted, and came down
to plant his forefeet wide apart, and watched his master with defiant
eyes. This mustang was the finest horse Shefford had ever seen. He
appeared quite large for his species, was almost red in color, had a racy
and powerful build, and a fine thoroughbred head with dark, fiery eyes. He
did not look mean, but he had spirit.

“Navvy, you’ve sure got bad manners,” said Lake, shaking the mustang’s
bridle. He spoke as if he were chiding a refractory little boy. “Didn’t I
break you better’n that? What’s this gentleman goin’ to think of you?
Tryin’ to bite my ear off!”

Lake had arrived about the middle of the forenoon, and Withers announced
his intention of packing at once for the trip. Indians were sent out on
the ranges to drive in burros and mustangs. Shefford had his thrilling
expectancy somewhat chilled by what he considered must have been Lake’s
reception of the trader’s plan. Lake seemed to oppose him, and evidently
it took vehemence and argument on Withers’s part to make the Mormon
tractable. But Withers won him over, and then he called Shefford to his
side.

“You fellows got to be good friends,” he said. “You’ll have charge of my
pack-trains. Nas Ta Bega wants to go with you. I’ll feel safer about my
supplies and stock than I’ve ever been…. Joe, I’ll back this stranger
for all I’m worth. He’s square…. And, Shefford, Joe Lake is a Mormon of
the younger generation. I want to start you right. You can trust him as
you trust me. He’s white clean through. And he’s the best horse-wrangler
in Utah.”

It was Lake who first offered his hand, and Shefford made haste to meet it
with his own. Neither of them spoke. Shefford intuitively felt an
alteration in Lake’s regard, or at least a singular increase of interest.
Lake had been told that Shefford had been a clergyman, was now a wanderer,
without any religion. Again it seemed to Shefford that he owed a forming
of friendship to this singular fact. And it hurt him. But strangely it
came to him that he had taken a liking to a Mormon.

About one o’clock the pack-train left Kayenta. Nas Ta Bega led the way up
the slope. Following him climbed half a dozen patient, plodding, heavily
laden burros. Withers came next, and he turned in his saddle to wave
good-by to his wife. Joe Lake appeared to be busy keeping a red mule and a
wild gray mustang and a couple of restive blacks in the trail. Shefford
brought up in the rear.

His mount was a beautiful black mustang with three white feet, a white
spot on his nose, and a mane that swept to his knees. “His name’s
Nack-yal,” Withers had said. “It means two bits, or twenty-five cents. He
ain’t worth more.” To look at Nack-yal had pleased Shefford very much
indeed, but, once upon his back, he grew dubious. The mustang acted queer.
He actually looked back at Shefford, and it was a look of speculation and
disdain. Shefford took exception to Nack-yal’s manner and to his
reluctance to go, and especially to a habit the mustang had of turning off
the trail to the left. Shefford had managed some rather spirited horses
back in Illinois; and though he was willing and eager to learn all over
again, he did not enjoy the prospect of Lake and Withers seeing this black
mustang make a novice of him. And he guessed that was just what Nack-yal
intended to do. However, once up over the hill, with Kayenta out of sight,
Nack-yal trotted along fairly well, needing only now and then to be pulled
back from his strange swinging to the left off the trail.

The pack-train traveled steadily and soon crossed the upland plain to
descend into the valley again. Shefford saw the jagged red peaks with an
emotion he could not name. The canyon between them were purple in the
shadows, the great walls and slopes brightened to red, and the tips were
gold in the sun. Shefford forgot all about his mustang and the trail.

Suddenly with a pound of hoofs Nack-yal seemed to rise. He leaped sidewise
out of the trail, came down stiff-legged. Then Shefford shot out of the
saddle. He landed so hard that he was stunned for an instant. Sitting up,
he saw the mustang bent down, eyes and ears showing fight, and his
forefeet spread. He appeared to be looking at something in the trail.
Shefford got up and soon saw what had been the trouble. A long, crooked
stick, rather thick and black and yellow, lay in the trail, and any
mustang looking for an excuse to jump might have mistaken it for a
rattlesnake. Nack-yal appeared disposed to be satisfied, and gave Shefford
no trouble in mounting. The incident increased Shefford’s dubiousness.
These Arizona mustangs were unknown quantities.

Thereafter Shefford had an eye for the trail rather than the scenery, and
this continued till the pack-train entered the mouth of the Sagi. Then
those wonderful lofty cliffs, with their peaks and towers and spires,
loomed so close and so beautiful that he did not care if Nack-yal did
throw him. Along here, however, the mustang behaved well, and presently
Shefford decided that if it had been otherwise he would have walked. The
trail suddenly stood on end and led down into the deep wash, where some
days before he had seen the stream of reddish water. This day there
appeared to be less water and it was not so red. Nack-yal sank deep as he
took short and careful steps down. The burros and other mustangs were
drinking, and Nack-yal followed suit. The Indian, with a hand clutching
his mustang’s mane, rode up a steep, sandy slope on the other side that
Shefford would not have believed any horse could climb. The burros plodded
up and over the rim, with Withers calling to them. Joe Lake swung his rope
and cracked the flanks of the gray mare and the red mule; and the way the
two kicked was a revelation and a warning to Shefford. When his turn came
to climb the trail he got off and walked, an action that Nack-yal appeared
fully to appreciate.

From the head of this wash the trail wound away up the widening canyon,
through greasewood flats and over grassy levels and across sandy
stretches. The looming walls made the valley look narrow, yet it must have
been half a mile wide. The slopes under the cliffs were dotted with huge
stones and cedar-trees. There were deep indentations in the walls, running
back to form box canyon, choked with green of cedar and spruce and pinon.
These notches haunted Shefford, and he was ever on the lookout for more of
them.

Withers came back to ride just in advance and began to talk.

“Reckon this Sagi canyon is your Deception Pass,” he said. “It’s sure a
queer hole. I’ve been lost more than once, hunting mustangs in here. I’ve
an idea Nas Ta Bega knows all this country. He just pointed out a
cliff-dwelling to me. See it?… There ‘way up in that cave of the wall.”

Shefford saw a steep, rough slope leading up to a bulge of the cliff, and
finally he made out strange little houses with dark, eyelike windows. He
wanted to climb up there. Withers called his attention to more caves with
what he believed were the ruins of cliff-dwellings. And as they rode along
the trader showed him remarkable formations of rock where the elements
were slowly hollowing out a bridge. They came presently to a region of
intersecting canyon, and here the breaking of the trail up and down the
deep washes took Withers back to his task with the burros and gave
Shefford more concern than he liked with Nack-yal. The mustang grew unruly
and was continually turning to the left. Sometimes he tried to climb the
steep slope. He had to be pulled hard away from the opening canyon on the
left. It seemed strange to Shefford that the mustang never swerved to the
right. This habit of Nack-yal’s and the increasing caution needed on the
trail took all of Shefford’s attention. When he dismounted, however, he
had a chance to look around, and more and more he was amazed at the
increasing proportions and wildness of the Sagi.

He came at length to a place where a fallen tree blocked the trail. All of
the rest of the pack-train had jumped the log. But Nack-yal balked.
Shefford dismounted, pulled the bridle over the mustang’s head, and tried
to lead him. Nack-yal, however, refused to budge. Whereupon Shefford got a
stick and, remounting, he gave the balky mustang a cut across the flank.
Then something violent happened. Shefford received a sudden propelling
jolt, and then he was rising into the air, and then falling. Before he
alighted he had a clear image of Nack-yal in the air above him, bent
double, and seemingly possessed of devils. Then Shefford hit the ground
with no light thud. He was thoroughly angry when he got dizzily upon his
feet, but he was not quick enough to catch the mustang. Nack-yal leaped
easily over the log and went on ahead, dragging his bridle. Shefford
hurried after him, and the faster he went just by so much the cunning
Nack-yal accelerated his gait. As the pack-train was out of sight
somewhere ahead, Shefford could not call to his companions to halt his
mount, so he gave up trying, and walked on now with free and growing
appreciation of his surroundings.

The afternoon had waned. The sun blazed low in the west in a notch of the
canyon ramparts, and one wall was darkening into purple shadow while the
other shone through a golden haze. It was a weird, wild world to Shefford,
and every few strides he caught his breath and tried to realize actuality
was not a dream.

Nack-yal kept about a hundred paces to the fore and ever and anon he
looked back to see how his new master was progressing. He varied these
occasions by reaching down and nipping a tuft of grass. Evidently he was
too intelligent to go on fast enough to be caught by Withers. Also he kept
continually looking up the slope to the left as if seeking a way to climb
out of the valley in that direction. Shefford thought it was well the
trail lay at the foot of a steep slope that ran up to unbroken bluffs.

The sun set and the canyon lost its red and its gold and deepened its
purple. Shefford calculated he had walked five miles, and though he did
not mind the effort, he would rather have ridden Nack-yal into camp. He
mounted a cedar ridge, crossed some sandy washes, turned a corner of bold
wall to enter a wide, green level. The mustangs were rolling and snorting.
He heard the bray of a burro. A bright blaze of camp-fire greeted him, and
the dark figure of the Indian approached to intercept and catch Nack-yal.
When he stalked into camp Withers wore a beaming smile, and Joe Lake, who
was on his knees making biscuit dough in a pan, stopped proceedings and
drawled:

“Reckon Nack-yal bucked you off.”

“Bucked! Was that it? Well, he separated himself from me in a new and
somewhat painful manner—to me.”

“Sure, I saw that in his eye,” replied Lake; and Withers laughed with him.

“Nack-yal never was well broke,” he said. “But he’s a good mustang,
nothing like Joe’s Navvy or that gray mare Dynamite. All this Indian stock
will buck on a man once in a while.”

“I’ll take the bucking along with the rest,” said Shefford. Both men liked
his reply, and the Indian smiled for the first time.

Soon they all sat round a spread tarpaulin and ate like wolves. After
supper came the rest and talk before the camp-fire. Joe Lake was droll; he
said the most serious things in a way to make Shefford wonder if he was
not joking. Withers talked about the canyon, the Indians, the mustangs,
the scorpions running out of the heated sand; and to Shefford it was all
like a fascinating book. Nas Ta Bega smoked in silence, his brooding eyes
upon the fire.

V. ON THE TRAIL

Shefford was awakened next morning by a sound he had never heard before—the
plunging of hobbled horses on soft turf. It was clear daylight, with a
ruddy color in the sky and a tinge of red along the canyon rim. He saw
Withers, Lake, and the Indian driving the mustangs toward camp.

The burros appeared lazy, yet willing. But the mustangs and the mule
Withers called Red and the gray mare Dynamite were determined not to be
driven into camp. It was astonishing how much action they had, how much
ground they could cover with their forefeet hobbled together. They were
exceedingly skilful; they lifted both forefeet at once, and then plunged.
And they all went in different directions. Nas Ta Bega darted in here and
there to head off escape.

Shefford pulled on his boots and went out to help. He got too close to the
gray mare and, warned by a yell from Withers, he jumped back just in time
to avoid her vicious heels. Then Shefford turned his attention to Nack-yal
and chased him all over the flat in a futile effort to catch him. Nas Ta
Bega came to Shefford’s assistance and put a rope over Nack-yal’s head.

“Don’t ever get behind one of these mustangs,” said Withers, warningly, as
Shefford came up. “You might be killed…. Eat your bite now. We’ll soon
be out of here.”

Shefford had been late in awakening. The others had breakfasted. He found
eating somewhat difficult in the excitement that ensued. Nas Ta Bega held
ropes which were round the necks of Red and Dynamite. The mule showed his
cunning and always appeared to present his heels to Withers, who tried to
approach him with a pack-saddle. The patience of the trader was a
revelation to Shefford. And at length Red was cornered by the three men,
the pack-saddle was strapped on, and then the packs. Red promptly bucked
the packs off, and the work had to be done over again. Then Red dropped
his long ears and seemed ready to be tractable.

When Shefford turned his attention to Dynamite he decided that this was
his first sight of a wild horse. The gray mare had fiery eyes that rolled
and showed the white. She jumped straight up, screamed, pawed, bit, and
then plunged down to shoot her hind hoofs into the air as high as her head
had been. She was amazingly agile and she seemed mad to kill something.
She dragged the Indian about, and when Joe Lake got a rope on her hind
foot she dragged them both. They lashed her with the ends of the lassoes,
which action only made her kick harder. She plunged into camp, drove
Shefford flying for his life, knocked down two of the burros, and played
havoc with the unstrapped packs. Withers ran to the assistance of Lake,
and the two of them hauled back with all their strength and weight. They
were both powerful and heavy men. Dynamite circled round and finally,
after kicking the camp-fire to bits, fell down on her haunches in the hot
embers. “Let—her—set—there!” panted Withers. And Joe
Lake shouted, “Burn up, you durn coyote!” Both men appeared delighted that
she had brought upon herself just punishment. Dynamite sat in the remains
of the fire long enough to get burnt, and then she got up and meekly
allowed Withers to throw a tarpaulin and a roll of blankets over her and
tie them fast.

Lake and Withers were sweating freely when this job was finished.

“Say, is that a usual morning’s task with the pack-animals?” asked
Shefford.

“They’re all pretty decent to-day, except Dynamite,” replied Withers.
“She’s got to be worked out.”

Shefford felt both amusement and consternation. The sun was just rising
over the ramparts of the canyon, and he had already seen more difficult
and dangerous work accomplished than half a dozen men of his type could do
in a whole day. He liked the outlook of his new duty as Withers’s
assistant, but he felt helplessly inefficient. Still, all he needed was
experience. He passed over what he anticipated would be pain and peril—the
cost was of no moment.

Soon the pack-train was on the move, with the Indian leading. This morning
Nack-yal began his strange swinging off to the left, precisely as he had
done the day before. It got to be annoying to Shefford, and he lost
patience with the mustang and jerked him sharply round. This, however, had
no great effect upon Nack-yal.

As the train headed straight up the canyon Joe Lake dropped back to ride
beside Shefford. The Mormon had been amiable and friendly.

“Flock of deer up that draw,” he said, pointing up a narrow side canyon.

Shefford gazed to see a half-dozen small, brown, long-eared objects, very
like burros, watching the pack-train pass.

“Are they deer?” he asked, delightedly.

“Sure are,” replied Joe, sincerely. “Get down and shoot one. There’s a
rifle in your saddle-sheath.”

Shefford had already discovered that he had been armed this morning, a
matter which had caused him reflection. These animals certainly looked
like deer; he had seen a few deer, though not in their native wild haunts;
and he experienced the thrill of the hunter. Dismounting, he drew the
rifle out of the sheath and started toward the little canyon.

“Hyar! Where you going with that gun?” yelled Withers. “That’s a bunch of
burros…. Joe’s up to his old tricks. Shefford, look out for Joe!”

Rather sheepishly Shefford returned to his mustang and sheathed the rifle,
and then took a long look at the animals up the draw. They, resembled
deer, but upon second glance they surely were burros.

“Durn me! Now if I didn’t think they sure were deer!” exclaimed Joe. He
appeared absolutely sincere and innocent. Shefford hardly knew how to take
this likable Mormon, but vowed he would be on his guard in the future.

Nas Ta Bega soon led the pack-train toward the left wall of the canyon,
and evidently intended to scale it. Shefford could not see any trail, and
the wall appeared steep and insurmountable. But upon nearing the cliff he
saw a narrow broken trail leading zigzag up over smooth rock, weathered
slope, and through cracks.

“Spread out, and careful now!” yelled Withers.

The need of both advices soon became manifest to Shefford. The burros
started stones rolling, making danger for those below. Shefford dismounted
and led Nack-yal and turned aside many a rolling rock. The Indian and the
burros, with the red mule leading, climbed steadily. But the mustangs had
trouble. Joe’s spirited bay had to be coaxed to face the ascent; Nack-yal
balked at every difficult step; and Dynamite slipped on a flat slant of
rock and slid down forty feet. Withers and Lake with ropes hauled the mare
out of the dangerous position. Shefford, who brought up the rear, saw all
the action, and it was exciting, but his pleasure in the climb was spoiled
by sight of blood and hair on the stones. The ascent was crooked, steep,
and long, and when Shefford reached the top of the wall he was glad to
rest. It made him gasp to look down and see what he had surmounted. The
canyon floor, green and level, lay a thousand feet below; and the wild
burros which had followed on the trail looked like rabbits.

Shefford mounted presently, and rode out upon a wide, smooth trail leading
into a cedar forest. There were bunches of gray sage in the open places.
The air was cool and crisp, laden with a sweet fragrance. He saw Lake and
Withers bobbing along, now on one side of the trail, now on the other, and
they kept to a steady trot. Occasionally the Indian and his bright-red
saddle-blanket showed in an opening of the cedars.

It was level country, and there was nothing for Shefford to see except
cedar and sage, an outcropping of red rock in places, and the winding
trail. Mocking-birds made melody everywhere. Shefford seemed full of a
strange pleasure, and the hours flew by. Nack-yal still wanted to be
everlastingly turning off the trail, and, moreover, now he wanted to go
faster. He was eager, restless, dissatisfied.

At noon the pack-train descended into a deep draw, well covered with cedar
and sage. There was plenty of grass and shade, but no water. Shefford was
surprised to see that every pack was removed; however, the roll of
blankets was left on Dynamite.

The men made a fire and began to cook a noonday meal. Shefford, tired and
warm, sat in a shady spot and watched. He had become all eyes. He had
almost forgotten Fay Larkin; he had forgotten his trouble; and the present
seemed sweet and full. Presently his ears were filled by a pattering roar
and, looking up the draw, he saw two streams of sheep and goats coming
down. Soon an Indian shepherd appeared, riding a fine mustang. A
cream-colored colt bounded along behind, and presently a shaggy dog came
in sight. The Indian dismounted at the camp, and his flock spread by in
two white and black streams. The dog went with them. Withers and Joe shook
hands with the Indian, whom Joe called “Navvy,” and Shefford lost no time
in doing likewise. Then Nas Ta Bega came in, and he and the Navajo talked.
When the meal was ready all of them sat down round the canvas. The
shepherd did not tie his horse.

Presently Shefford noticed that Nack-yal had returned to camp and was
acting strangely. Evidently he was attracted by the Indian’s mustang or
the cream-colored colt. At any rate, Nack-yal hung around, tossed his
head, whinnied in a low, nervous manner, and looked strangely eager and
wild. Shefford was at first amused, then curious. Nack-yal approached too
close to the mother of the colt, and she gave him a sounding kick in the
ribs. Nack-yal uttered a plaintive snort and backed away, to stand,
crestfallen, with all his eagerness and fire vanished.

Nas Ta Bega pointed to the mustang and said something in his own tongue.
Then Withers addressed the visiting Indian, and they exchanged some words,
whereupon the trader turned to Shefford:

“I bought Nack-yal from this Indian three years ago. This mare is
Nack-yal’s mother. He was born over here to the south. That’s why he
always swung left off the trail. He wanted to go home. Just now he
recognized his mother and she whaled away and gave him a whack for his
pains. She’s got a colt now and probably didn’t recognize Nack-yal. But
he’s broken-hearted.”

The trader laughed, and Joe said, “You can’t tell what these durn mustangs
will do.” Shefford felt sorry for Nack-yal, and when it came time to
saddle him again found him easier to handle than ever before. Nack-yal
stood with head down, broken-spirited.

Shefford was the first to ride up out of the draw, and once upon the top
of the ridge he halted to gaze, wide-eyed and entranced. A rolling,
endless plain sloped down beneath him, and led him on to a distant
round-topped mountain. To the right a red canyon opened its jagged jaws,
and away to the north rose a whorled and strange sea of curved ridges,
crags, and domes.

Nas Ta Bega rode up then, leading the pack-train.

“Bi Nai, that is Na-tsis-an,” he said, pointing to the mountain. “Navajo
Mountain. And there in the north are the canyon.”

Shefford followed the Indian down the trail and soon lost sight of that
wide green-and-red wilderness. Nas Ta Bega turned at an intersecting
trail, rode down into the canyon, and climbed out on the other side.
Shefford got a glimpse now and then of the black dome of the mountain, but
for the most part the distant points of the country were hidden. They
crossed many trails, and went up and down the sides of many shallow
canyon. Troops of wild mustangs whistled at them, stood on ridge-tops to
watch, and then dashed away with manes and tails flying.

Withers rode forward presently and halted the pack-train. He had some
conversation with Nas Ta Bega, whereupon the Indian turned his horse and
trotted back, to disappear in the cedars.

“I’m some worried,” explained Withers. “Joe thinks he saw a bunch of
horsemen trailing us. My eyes are bad and I can’t see far. The Indian will
find out. I took a roundabout way to reach the village because I’m always
dodging Shadd.”

This communication lent an added zest to the journey. Shefford could
hardly believe the truth that his eyes and his ears brought to his
consciousness. He turned in behind Withers and rode down the rough trail,
helping the mustang all in his power. It occurred to him that Nack-yal had
been entirely different since that meeting with his mother in the draw. He
turned no more off the trail; he answered readily to the rein; he did not
look afar from every ridge. Shefford conceived a liking for the mustang.

Withers turned sidewise in his saddle and let his mustang pick the way.

“Another time we’ll go up round the base of the mountain, where you can
look down on the grandest scene in the world,” said he. “Two hundred miles
of wind-worn rock, all smooth and bare, without a single straight line—canyon,
caves, bridges—the most wonderful country in the world! Even the
Indians haven’t explored it. It’s haunted, for them, and they have strange
gods. The Navajos will hunt on this side of the mountain, but not on the
other. That north side is consecrated ground. My wife has long been trying
to get the Navajos to tell her the secret of Nonnezoshe. Nonnezoshe means
Rainbow Bridge. The Indians worship it, but as far as she can find out
only a few have ever seen it. I imagine it’d be worth some trouble.”

“Maybe that’s the bridge Venters talked about—the one overarching
the entrance to Surprise Valley,” Said Shefford.

“It might be,” replied the trader. “You’ve got a good chance of finding
out. Nas Ta Bega is the man. You stick to that Indian. … Well, we start
down here into this canyon, and we go down some, I reckon. In half an hour
you’ll see sago-lilies and Indian paint-brush and vermilion cactus.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

About the middle of the afternoon the pack-train and its drivers arrived
at the hidden Mormon village. Nas Ta Bega had not returned from his scout
back along the trail.

Shefford’s sensibilities had all been overstrained, but he had left in him
enthusiasm and appreciation that made the situation of this village a
fairyland. It was a valley, a canyon floor, so long that he could not see
the end, and perhaps a quarter of a mile wide. The air was hot, still, and
sweetly odorous of unfamiliar flowers. Pinon and cedar trees surrounded
the little log and stone houses, and along the walls of the canyon stood
sharp-pointed, dark-green spruce-trees. These walls were singular of shape
and color. They were not imposing in height, but they waved like the long,
undulating swell of a sea. Every foot of surface was perfectly smooth, and
the long curved lines of darker tinge that streaked the red followed the
rounded line of the slope at the top. Far above, yet overhanging, were
great yellow crags and peaks, and between these, still higher, showed the
pine-fringed slope of Navajo Mountain with snow in the sheltered places,
and glistening streams, like silver threads, running down.

All this Shefford noticed as he entered the valley from round a corner of
wall. Upon nearer view he saw and heard a host of children, who, looking
up to see the intruders, scattered like frightened quail. Long gray grass
covered the ground, and here and there wide, smooth paths had been worn. A
swift and murmuring brook ran through the middle of the valley, and its
banks were bordered with flowers.

Withers led the way to one side near the wall, where a clump of
cedar-trees and a dark, swift spring boiling out of the rocks and banks of
amber moss with purple blossoms made a beautiful camp site. Here the
mustangs were unsaddled and turned loose without hobbles. It was certainly
unlikely that they would leave such a spot. Some of the burros were
unpacked, and the others Withers drove off into the village.

“Sure’s pretty nice,” said Joe, wiping his sweaty face. “I’ll never want
to leave. It suits me to lie on this moss…. Take a drink of that
spring.”

Shefford complied with alacrity and found the water cool and sweet, and he
seemed to feel it all through him. Then he returned to the mossy bank. He
did not reply to Joe. In fact, all his faculties were absorbed in watching
and feeling, and he lay there long after Joe went off to the village. The
murmur of water, the hum of bees, the songs of strange birds, the sweet,
warm air, the dreamy summer somnolence of the valley—all these added
drowsiness to Shefford’s weary lassitude, and he fell asleep. When he
awoke Nas Ta Bega was sitting near him and Joe was busy near a camp-fire.

“Hello, Nas Ta Bega!” said Shefford. “Was there any one trailing us?”

The Navajo nodded.

Joe raised his head and with forceful brevity said, “Shadd.”

“Shadd!” echoed Shefford, remembering the dark, sinister face of his
visitor that night in the Sagi. “Joe, is it serious—his trailing
us?”

“Well, I don’t know how durn serious it is, but I’m scared to death,”
replied Lake. “He and his gang will hold us up somewhere on the way home.”

Shefford regarded Joe with both concern and doubt. Joe’s words were at
variance with his looks.

“Say, pard, can you shoot a rifle?” queried Joe.

“Yes. I’m a fair shot at targets.”

The Mormon nodded his head as if pleased. “That’s good. These outlaws are
all poor shots with a rifle. So ‘m I. But I can handle a six-shooter. I
reckon we’ll make Shadd sweat if he pushes us.”

Withers returned, driving the burros, all of which had been unpacked down
to the saddles. Two gray-bearded men accompanied him. One of them appeared
to be very old and venerable, and walked with a stick. The other had a
sad-lined face and kind, mild blue eyes. Shefford observed that Lake
seemed unusually respectful. Withers introduced these Mormons merely as
Smith and Henninger. They were very cordial and pleasant in their
greetings to Shefford. Presently another, somewhat younger, man joined the
group, a stalwart, jovial fellow with ruddy face. There was certainly no
mistaking his kindly welcome as he shook Shefford’s hand. His name was
Beal. The three stood round the camp-fire for a while, evidently glad of
the presence of fellow-men and to hear news from the outside. Finally they
went away, taking Joe with them. Withers took up the task of getting
supper where Joe had been made to leave it.

“Shefford, listen,” he said, presently, as he knelt before the fire. “I
told them right out that you’d been a Gentile clergyman—that you’d
gone back on your religion. It impressed them and you’ve been well
received. I’ll tell the same thing over at Stonebridge. You’ll get in
right. Of course I don’t expect they’ll make a Mormon of you. But they’ll
try to. Meanwhile you can be square and friendly all the time you’re
trying to find your Fay Larkin. To-morrow you’ll meet some of the women.
They’re good souls, but, like any women, crazy for news. Think what it is
to be shut up in here between these walls!”

“Withers, I’m intensely interested,” replied Shefford, “and excited, too.
Shall we stay here long?”

“I’ll stay a couple of days, then go to Stonebridge with Joe. He’ll come
back here, and when you both feel like leaving, and if Nas Ta Bega thinks
it safe, you’ll take a trail over to some Indian hogans and pack me out a
load of skins and blankets…. My boy, you’ve all the time there is, and I
wish you luck. This isn’t a bad place to loaf. I always get sentimental
over here. Maybe it’s the women. Some of them are pretty, and one of them—Shefford,
they call her the Sago Lily. Her first name is Mary, I’m told. Don’t know
her last name. She’s lovely. And I’ll bet you forget Fay Larkin in a
flash. Only—be careful. You drop in here with rather peculiar
credentials, so to speak—as my helper and as a man with no religion!
You’ll not only be fully trusted, but you’ll be welcome to these lonely
women. So be careful. Remember it’s my secret belief they are sealed wives
and are visited occasionally at night by their husbands. I don’t know
this, but I believe it. And you’re not supposed to dream of that.”

“How many men in the village?” asked Shefford.

“Three. You met them.”

“Have they wives?” asked Shefford, curiously.

“Wives! Well, I guess. But only one each that I know of. Joe Lake is the
only unmarried Mormon I’ve met.”

“And no men—strangers, cowboys, outlaws—ever come to this
village?”

“Except to Indians, it seems to be a secret so far,” replied the trader,
earnestly. “But it can’t be kept secret. I’ve said that time after time
over in Stonebridge. With Mormons it’s ‘sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof.’”

“What’ll happen when outsiders do learn and ride in here?”

“There’ll be trouble—maybe bloodshed. Mormon women are absolutely
good, but they’re human, and want and need a little life. And, strange to
say, Mormon men are pig-headedly jealous…. Why, if some of the cowboys I
knew in Durango would ride over here there’d simply be hell. But that’s a
long way, and probably this village will be deserted before news of it
ever reaches Colorado. There’s more danger of Shadd and his gang coming
in. Shadd’s half Piute. He must know of this place. And he’s got some
white outlaws in his gang…. Come on. Grub’s ready, and I’m too hungry to
talk.”

Later, when shadows began to gather in the valley and the lofty peaks
above were gold in the sunset glow, Withers left camp to look after the
straying mustangs, and Shefford strolled to and fro under the cedars. The
lights and shades in the Sagi that first night had moved him to
enthusiastic watchfulness, but here they were so weird and beautiful that
he was enraptured. He actually saw great shafts of gold and shadows of
purple streaming from the peaks down into the valley. It was day on the
heights and twilight in the valley. The swiftly changing colors were like
rainbows.

While he strolled up and down several women came to the spring and filled
their buckets. They wore shawls or hoods and their garments were somber,
but, nevertheless, they appeared to have youth and comeliness. They saw
him, looked at him curiously, and then, without speaking, went back on the
well-trodden path. Presently down the path appeared a woman—a girl
in lighter garb. It was almost white. She was shapely and walked with
free, graceful step, reminding him of the Indian girl, Glen Naspa. This
one wore a hood shaped like a huge sunbonnet and it concealed her face.
She carried a bucket. When she reached the spring and went down the few
stone steps Shefford saw that she did not have on shoes. As she braced
herself to lift the bucket her bare foot clung to the mossy stone. It was
a strong, sinewy, beautiful foot, instinct with youth. He was curious
enough, he thought, but the awakening artist in him made him more so. She
dragged at the full bucket and had difficulty in lifting it out of the
hole. Shefford strode forward and took the bucket-handle from her.

“Won’t you let me help you?” he said, lifting the bucket. “Indeed—it’s
very heavy.”

“Oh—thank you,” she said, without raising her head. Her voice seemed
singularly young and sweet. He had not heard a voice like it. She moved
down the path and he walked beside her. He felt embarrassed, yet more
curious than ever; he wanted to say something, to turn and look at her,
but he kept on for a dozen paces without making up his mind.

Finally he said: “Do you really carry this heavy bucket? Why, it makes my
arm ache.”

“Twice every day—morning and evening,” she replied. “I’m very
strong.”

Then he stole a look out of the corner of his eye, and, seeing that her
face was hidden from him by the hood, he turned to observe her at better
advantage. A long braid of hair hung down her back. In the twilight it
gleamed dull gold. She came up to his shoulder. The sleeve nearest him was
rolled up to her elbow, revealing a fine round arm. Her hand, like her
foot, was brown, strong, and well shaped. It was a hand that had been
developed by labor. She was full-bosomed, yet slender, and she walked with
a free stride that made Shefford admire and wonder.

They passed several of the little stone and log houses, and women greeted
them as they went by and children peered shyly from the doors. He kept
trying to think of something to say, and, failing in that, determined to
have one good look under the hood before he left her.

“You walk lame,” she said, solicitously. “Let me carry the bucket now—please.
My house is near.”

“Am I lame?… Guess so, a little,” he replied. “It was a hard ride for
me. But I’ll carry the bucket just the same.”

They went on under some pinon-trees, down a path to a little house
identical with the others, except that it had a stone porch. Shefford
smelled fragrant wood-smoke and saw a column curling from the low, flat,
stone chimney. Then he set the bucket down on the porch. “Thank you, Mr.
Shefford,” she said. “You know my name?” he asked. “Yes. Mr. Withers spoke
to my nearest neighbor and she told me.”

“Oh, I see. And you—”

He did not go on and she did not reply. When she stepped upon the porch
and turned he was able to see under the hood. The face there was in
shadow, and for that very reason he answered to ungovernable impulse and
took a step closer to her. Dark, grave, sad eyes looked down at him, and
he felt as if he could never draw his own glance away. He seemed not to
see the rest of her face, and yet felt that it was lovely. Then a downward
movement of the hood hid from him the strange eyes and the shadowy
loveliness.

“I—I beg your pardon,” he said, quickly, drawing back. “I’m rude.
… Withers told me about a girl he called—he said looked like a
sago-lily. That’s no excuse to stare under your hood. But I—I was
curious. I wondered if—”

He hesitated, realizing how foolish his talk was. She stood a moment,
probably watching him, but he could not be sure, for her face was hidden.

“They call me that,” she said. “But my name is Mary.”

“Mary—what?” he asked.

“Just Mary,” she said, simply. “Good night.”

He did not say good night and could not have told why. She took up the
bucket and went into the dark house. Shefford hurried away into the
gathering darkness.

VI. IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY

Shefford had hardly seen her face, yet he was more interested in a woman
than he had ever been before. Still, he reflected, as he returned to camp,
he had been under a long strain, he was unduly excited by this new and
adventurous life, and these, with the mystery of this village, were
perhaps accountable for a state of mind that could not last.

He rolled in his blankets on the soft bed of moss and he saw the stars
through the needle-like fringe of the pinyons. It seemed impossible to
fall asleep. The two domed peaks split the sky, and back of them, looming
dark and shadowy, rose the mountain. There was something cold, austere,
and majestic in their lofty presence, and they made him feel alone, yet
not alone. He raised himself to see the quiet forms of Withers and Nas Ta
Bega prone in the starlight, and their slow, deep breathing was that of
tired men. A bell on a mustang rang somewhere off in the valley and gave
out a low, strange, reverberating echo from wall to wall. When it ceased a
silence set in that was deader than any silence he had ever felt, but
gradually he became aware of the low murmur of the brook. For the rest
there was no sound of wind, no bark of dog or yelp of coyote, no sound of
voice in the village.

He tried to sleep, but instead thought of this girl who was called the
Sago Lily. He recalled everything incident to their meeting and the walk
to her home. Her swift, free step, her graceful poise, her shapely form—the
long braid of hair, dull gold in the twilight, the beautiful bare foot and
the strong round arm—these he thought of and recalled vividly. But
of her face he had no idea except the shadowy, haunting loveliness, and
that grew more and more difficult to remember. The tone of her voice and
what she had said—how the one had thrilled him and the other
mystified! It was her voice that had most attracted him. There was
something in it besides music—what, he could not tell—sadness,
depth, something like that in Nas Ta Bega’s beauty springing from disuse.
But this seemed absurd. Why should he imagine her voice one that had not
been used as freely as any other woman’s? She was a Mormon; very likely,
almost surely, she was a sealed wife. His interest, too, was absurd, and
he tried to throw it off, or imagine it one he might have felt in any
other of these strange women of the hidden village.

But Shefford’s intelligence and his good sense, which became operative
when he was fully roused and set the situation clearly before his eyes,
had no effect upon his deeper, mystic, and primitive feelings. He saw the
truth and he felt something that he could not name. He would not be a
fool, but there was no harm in dreaming. And unquestionably, beyond all
doubt, the dream and the romance that had lured him to the wilderness were
here; hanging over him like the shadows of the great peaks. His heart
swelled with emotion when he thought of how the black and incessant
despair of the past was gone. So he embraced any attraction that made him
forget and think and feel; some instinct stronger than intelligence bade
him drift.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Joe’s rolling voice awoke him next morning and he rose with a singular
zest. When or where in his life had he awakened in such a beautiful place?
Almost he understood why Venters and Bess had been haunted by memories of
Surprise Valley. The morning was clear, cool, sweet; the peaks were dim
and soft in rosy cloud; shafts of golden sunlight shot down into the
purple shadows. Mocking-birds were singing. His body was sore and tired
from the unaccustomed travel, but his heart was full, happy. His spirit
wanted to run, and he knew there was something out there waiting to meet
it. The Indian and the trader and the Mormon all meant more to him this
morning. He had grown a little overnight. Nas Ta Bega’s deep “Bi Nai” rang
in his ears, and the smiles of Withers and Joe were greetings. He had
friends; he had work; and there was rich, strange, and helpful life to
live. There was even a difference in the mustang Nack-yal. He came
readily; he did not look wild; he had a friendly eye; and Shefford liked
him more.

“What is there to do?” asked Shefford, feeling equal to a hundred tasks.

“No work,” replied the trader, with a laugh, and he drew Shefford aside,
“I’m in no hurry. I like it here. And Joe never wants to leave. To-day you
can meet the women. Make yourself popular. I’ve already made you that.
These women are most all young and lonesome. Talk to them. Make them like
you. Then some day you may be safe to ask questions. Last night I wanted
to ask old Mother Smith if she ever heard the name Fay Larkin. But I
thought better of it. If there’s a girl here or at Stonebridge of that
name we’ll learn it. If there’s mystery we’d better go slow. Mormons are
hell on secret and mystery, and to pry into their affairs is to queer
yourself. My advice is—just be as nice as you can be, and let things
happen.”

Fay Larkin! All in a night Shefford had forgotten her. Why? He pondered
over the matter, and then the old thrill, the old desire, came back.

“Shefford, what do you think Nas Ta Bega said to me last night?” asked
Withers in lower voice.

“Haven’t any idea,” replied Shefford, curiously.

“We were sitting beside the fire. I saw you walking under the cedars. You
seemed thoughtful. That keen Indian watched you, and he said to me in
Navajo, ‘Bi Nai has lost his God. He has come far to find a wife. Nas Ta
Bega is his brother.’… He meant he’ll find both God and wife for you. I
don’t know about that, but I say take the Indian as he thinks he is—your
brother. Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well my wife used to tell me about
him. He’s a sage and a poet—the very spirit of this desert. He’s
worth cultivating for his own sake. But more—remember, if Fay Larkin
is still shut in that valley the Navajo will find her for you.”

“I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother—and be proud,” replied
Shefford.

“There’s another thing. Do you intend to confide in Joe?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Well, it might be a good plan. But wait until you know him better and he
knows you. He’s ready to fight for you now. He’s taken your trouble to
heart. You wouldn’t think Joe is deeply religious. Yet he is. He may never
breathe a word about religion to you…. Now, Shefford, go ahead. You’ve
struck a trail. It’s rough, but it’ll make a man of you. It’ll lead
somewhere.”

“I’m singularly fortunate—I—who had lost all friends. Withers,
I am grateful. I’ll prove it. I’ll show—”

Withers’s upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized that
beneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine feeling.
These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning to loom up
large in Shefford’s mind.

The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the women of
the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake made friendly
and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down the path he
poised a biscuit in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, and with
his head cocked sidewise like an owl he said, “Reckon I’ve got to get me a
woman like her.”

Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciously
watching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At last he
saw her—the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. A little
shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that was explicable
about it was something associated with regret.

Joe Lake whistled and stared.

“I haven’t met her,” he muttered.

“That’s the Sago Lily,” said Withers.

“Reckon I’m going to carry that bucket,” went on Joe.

“And queer yourself with all the other women who’ve been to the spring?
Don’t do it, Joe,” advised the trader.

“But her bucket’s bigger,” protested Joe, weakly.

“That’s true. But you ought to know Mormons. If she’d come first, all
right. As she didn’t—why, don’t single her out.”

Joe kept his seat. The girl came to the spring. A low “good morning” came
from under the hood. Then she filled her bucket and started home. Shefford
observed that this time she wore moccasins and she carried the heavy
bucket with ease. When she disappeared he had again the vague,
inexplicable sensation of regret.

Joe Lake breathed heavily. “Reckon I’ve got to get me a woman like her,”
he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appeared
thoughtful.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Withers first took Shefford to the building used for a school. It was
somewhat larger than the other houses, had only one room with two doors
and several windows. It was full of children, of all sizes and ages,
sitting on rude board benches.

There were half a hundred of them, sturdy, healthy, rosy boys and girls,
clad in home-made garments. The young woman teacher was as embarrassed as
her pupils were shy, and the visitors withdrew without having heard a word
of lessons.

Withers then called upon Smith, Henninger, and Beal, and their wives.
Shefford found himself cordially received, and what little he did say
showed him how he would be listened to when he cared to talk. These folk
were plain and kindly, and he found that there was nothing about them to
dislike. The men appeared mild and quiet, and when not conversing seemed
austere. The repose of the women was only on the surface; underneath he
felt their intensity. Especially in many of the younger women, whom he met
in the succeeding hour, did he feel this power of restrained emotion. This
surprised him, as did also the fact that almost every one of them was
attractive and some of them were exceedingly pretty. He became so
interested in them all as a whole that he could not individualize one.
They were as widely different in appearance and temperament as women of
any other class, but it seemed to Shefford that one common trait united
them—and it was a strange, checked yearning for something that he
could not discover. Was it happiness? They certainly seemed to be happy,
far more so than those millions of women who were chasing phantoms. Were
they really sealed wives, as Withers believed, and was this unnatural
wife-hood responsible for the strange intensity? At any rate he returned
to camp with the conviction that he had stumbled upon a remarkable
situation.

He had been told the last names of only three women, and their husbands
were in the village. The names of the others were Ruth, Rebecca, Joan—he
could not recall them all. They were the mothers of these beautiful
children. The fathers, as far as he was concerned, were as intangible as
myths. Shefford was an educated clergyman, a man of the world, and, as
such, knew women in his way. Mormons might be strange and different, yet
the fundamental truth was that all over the world mothers of children were
wives; there was a relation between wife and mother that did not need to
be named to be felt; and he divined from this that, whatever the situation
of these lonely and hidden women, they knew themselves to be wives.
Shefford absolutely satisfied himself on that score. If they were
miserable they certainly did not show it, and the question came to him how
just was the criticism of uninformed men? His judgment of Mormons had been
established by what he had heard and read, rather than what he knew. He
wanted now to have an open mind. He had studied the totemism and exogamy
of the primitive races, and here was his opportunity to understand
polygamy. One wife for one man—that was the law. Mormons broke it
openly; Gentiles broke it secretly. Mormons acknowledged all their wives
and protected their children; Gentiles acknowledged one wife only.
Unquestionably the Mormons were wrong, but were not the Gentiles still
more wrong?

The following day Joe Lake appeared reluctant to start for Stonebridge
with Withers.

“Joe, you’d better come along,” said the trader, dryly. “I reckon you’ve
seen a little too much of the Sago Lily.”

Lake offered no reply, but it was evident from his sober face that Withers
had not hit short of the mark. Withers rode off, with a parting word to
Shefford, and finally Joe somberly mounted his bay and trotted down the
valley. As Nas Ta Bega had gone off somewhere to visit Indians, Shefford
was left alone.

He went into the village and made himself useful and agreeable. He made
friends with the children and he talked to the women until he was hoarse.
Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never in his life had
he had such an attentive audience. And as he showed no curiosity, asked no
difficult questions, gradually what reserve he had noted wore away, and
the end of the day saw him on a footing with them that Withers had
predicted.

By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest and
friendliness of these women that he might have lived long among them. He
was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which he freely gave,
and not with selfish motive. He liked these women; he liked to see the
somber shade pass from their faces, to see them brighten. He had met the
girl Mary at the spring and along the path, but he had not yet seen her
face. He was always looking for her, hoping to meet her, and confessed to
himself that the best of the day for him were the morning and evening
visits she made to the spring. Nevertheless, for some reason hard to
divine, he was reluctant to seek her deliberately.

Always while he had listened to her neighbors’ talk, he had hoped they
might let fall something about her. But they did not. He received an
impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he had
supposed. They all made one big family. Still, she seemed a little
outside. He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea. He merely felt
it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligent reason.
Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.

It was his habit to call upon Mother Smith in the afternoons. From the
first her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making him a
Mormon. Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke of their
religion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds to free and
simple discussion of their faith. Shefford lent respectful attention. He
would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, and apparently they
considered him the latter, and were earnest to save his soul. Shefford
knew that he could never be one any more than the other. He was just at
sea. But he listened, and he found them simple in faith, blind, perhaps,
but loyal and good. It was noteworthy that Mother Smith happened to be the
only woman in the village who had ever mentioned religion to him. She was
old, of a past generation; the young women belonged to the present.
Shefford pondered the significant difference.

Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery that was
like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time many little
ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest. This last was
of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning more about the
villagers. He gathered from keen interpretation of subtle words and looks
that here in this lonely village, the same as in all the rest of the world
where women were together, there were cliques, quarrels, dislikes, loves,
and jealousies. The truth, once known to him, made him feel natural and
fortified his confidence to meet the demands of an increasingly
interesting position. He discovered, with a somewhat grim amusement, that
a clergyman’s experience in a church full of women had not been entirely
useless.

One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle question in
regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily. In response he
received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honey of woman’s
jealousy. He said no more. Certain ideas of his were strengthened, and
straightway he became thoughtful.

That afternoon late, as he did his camp chores, he watched for her. But
she did not come. Then he decided to go to see her. But even the decision
and the strange thrill it imparted did not change his reluctance.

Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and the
shadows were thick under the pinyons. There was no light in the door or
window. He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the path it
rose. It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.

“Good evening,” he said. “It’s Shefford. May I stay and talk a little
while?”

She was silent for so long that he began to feel awkward.

“I’d be glad to have you,” she replied, finally.

There was a bench on the porch, but he preferred to sit upon a blanket on
the step.

“I’ve been getting acquainted with everybody—except you,” he went
on.

“I have been here,” she replied.

That might have been a woman’s speech, but it certainly had been made in a
girl’s voice. She was neither shy nor embarrassed nor self-conscious. As
she stood back from him he could not see her face in the dense twilight.

“I’ve been wanting to call on you.”

She made some slight movement. Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he knew
the moment was big and potent.

“Won’t you sit here?” he asked.

She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, in the
twilight. And it struck him mute. But he had no glimpse such as had
flashed upon him from under her hood that other night. He thought of a
white flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the rare and
perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild canyon. She was only a girl.
She sat very still, looking straight before her, and seemed to be waiting,
listening. Shefford saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom.

“I want to talk,” he began, swiftly, hoping to put her at her ease. “Every
one here has been good to me and I’ve talked—oh, for hours and
hours. But the thing in my mind I haven’t spoken of. I’ve never asked any
questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I came out
here. I need some one who will keep my secret, and perhaps help me….
Would you?”

“Yes, if I could,” she replied.

“You see I’ve got to trust you, or one of these other women. You’re all
Mormons. I don’t mean that’s anything against you. I believe you’re all
good and noble. But the fact makes—well, makes a liberty of speech
impossible. What can I do?”

Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed less
strain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the right track
and did not regret his impulse. Even had he regretted it he would have
gone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence was his driving mystic
force.

Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to be an
artist, his renunciation to his father’s hope, his career as a clergyman,
his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made him a wanderer.

“Oh—I’m sorry!” she said. The faint starlight shone on her face, in
her eyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then. She seemed
deeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed girlhood then—all
the quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of a heart innocent and
untutored. She looked at him with great, starry, questioning eyes, as if
they had just become aware of his presence, as if a man had been strange
to her.

“Thank you. It’s good of you to be sorry,” he said. “My instinct guided me
right. Perhaps you’ll be my friend.”

“I will be—if I can,” she said.

“But CAN you be?”

“I don’t know. I never had a friend. I… But, sir, I mustn’t talk of
myself…. Oh, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”

How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in need of
help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a judgment formed
from observation of a class different from hers.

“Maybe you CAN help me. Let’s see,” he said. “I don’t seek to make you
talk of yourself. But—you’re a human being—a girl—almost
a woman. You’re not dumb. But even a nun can talk.”

“A nun? What is that?”

“Well—a nun is a sister of mercy—a woman consecrated to God—who
has renounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns.
It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley…. You see—how
I talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak what perhaps
should be unsaid. And it’s hard, because I feel I could unburden myself to
you.”

“Tell me what you want,” she said.

Shefford hesitated, and became aware of the rapid pound of his heart. More
than anything he wanted to be fair to this girl. He saw that she was
warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed upon him. The
starlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white face.

“I’ll tell you presently,” he said. “I’ve trusted you. I’ll trust you with
all…. But let me have my own time. This is so strange a thing, my
wanting to confide in you. It’s selfish, perhaps. I have my own ax to
grind. I hope I won’t wrong you. That’s why I’m going to be perfectly
frank. I might wait for days to get better acquainted. But the impulse is
on me. I’ve been so interested in all you Mormon women. The fact—the
meaning of this hidden village is so—so terrible to me. But that’s
none of my business. I have spent my afternoons and evenings with these
women at the different cottages. You do not mingle with them. They are
lonely, but have not such loneliness as yours. I have passed here every
night. No light—no sound. I can’t help thinking. Don’t censure me or
be afraid or draw within yourself just because I must think. I may be all
wrong. But I’m curious. I wonder about you. Who are you? Mary—Mary
what? Maybe I really don’t want to know. I came with selfish motive and
now I’d like to—to—what shall I say? Make your life a little
less lonely for the while I’m here. That’s all. It needn’t offend. And if
you accept it, how much easier I can tell you my secret. You are a Mormon
and I—well, I am only a wanderer in these wilds. But—we might
help each other…. Have I made a mistake?”

“No—no,” she cried, almost wildly.

“We can be friends then. You will trust me, help me?”

“Yes, if I dare.”

“Surely you may dare what the other women would?”

She was silent.

And the wistfulness of her silence touched him. He felt contrition. He did
not stop to analyze his own emotions, but he had an inkling that once this
strange situation was ended he would have food for reflection. What struck
him most now was the girl’s blanched face, the strong, nervous clasp of
her hands, the visible tumult of her bosom. Excitement alone could not be
accountable for this. He had not divined the cause for such agitation. He
was puzzled, troubled, and drawn irresistibly. He had not said what he had
planned to say. The moment had given birth to his speech, and it had
flowed. What was guiding him?

“Mary,” he said, earnestly, “tell me—have you mother, father,
sister, brother? Something prompts me to ask that.”

“All dead—gone—years ago,” she answered.

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen, I think. I’m not sure.”

“You ARE lonely.”

His words were gentle and divining.

“O God!” she cried. “Lonely!”

Then as a man in a dream he beheld her weeping. There was in her the
unconsciousness of a child and the passion of a woman. He gazed out into
the dark shadows and up at the white stars, and then at the bowed head
with its mass of glinting hair. But her agitation was no longer strange to
him. A few gentle and kind words had proved her undoing. He knew then that
whatever her life was, no kindness or sympathy entered it. Presently she
recovered, and sat as before, only whiter of face it seemed, and with
something tragic in her dark eyes. She was growing cold and still again,
aloof, more like those other Mormon women.

“I understand,” he said. “I’m not sorry I spoke. I felt your trouble,
whatever it is…. Do not retreat into your cold shell, I beg of you….
Let me trust you with my secret.”

He saw her shake out of the cold apathy. She wavered. He felt an
inexplicable sweetness in the power his voice seemed to have upon her. She
bowed her head in acquiescence. And Shefford began his story. Did she grow
still, like stone, or was that only his vivid imagination? He told her of
Venters and Bess—of Lassiter and Jane—of little Fay Larkin—of
the romance, and then the tragedy of Surprise Valley.

“So, when my Church disowned me,” he concluded, “I conceived the idea of
wandering into the wilds of Utah to save Fay Larkin from that canyon
prison. It grew to be the best and strongest desire of my life. I think if
I could save her that it would save me. I never loved any girl. I can’t
say that I love Fay Larkin. How could I when I’ve never seen her—when
she’s only a dream girl? But I believe if she were to become a reality—a
flesh-and-blood girl—that I would love her.”

That was more than Shefford had ever confessed to any one, and it stirred
him to his depths. Mary bent her head on her hands in strange, stonelike
rigidity.

“So here I am in the canyon country,” he continued. “Withers tells me it
is a country of rainbows, both in the evanescent air and in the changeless
stone. Always as a boy there had been for me some haunting promise, some
treasure at the foot of the rainbow. I shall expect the curve of a rainbow
to lead me down into Surprise Valley. A dreamer, you will call me. But I
have had strange dreams come true…. Mary, do you think THIS dream will
come true?”

She was silent so long that he repeated his question.

“Only—in heaven,” she whispered.

He took her reply strangely and a chill crept over him.

“You think my plan to seek to strive, to find—you think that idle,
vain?”

“I think it noble…. Thank God I’ve met a man like you!”

“Don’t praise me!” he exclaimed, hastily. “Only help me…. Mary, will you
answer a few little questions, if I swear by my honor I’ll never reveal
what you tell me?”

“I’ll try.”

He moistened his lips. Why did she seem so strange, so far away? The
hovering shadows made him nervous. Always he had been afraid of the dark.
His mood now admitted of unreal fancies.

“Have you ever heard of Fay Larkin?” he asked, very low.

“Yes.”

“Was there only one Fay Larkin?”

“Only one.”

“Did you—ever see her?”

“Yes,” came the faint reply.

He was grateful. How she might be breaking faith with creed or duty! He
had not dared to hope so much. All his inner being trembled at the portent
of his next query. He had not dreamed it would be so hard to put, or would
affect him so powerfully. A warmth, a glow, a happiness pervaded his
spirit; and the chill, the gloom were as if they had never been.

“Where is Fay Larkin now?” he asked, huskily.

He bent over her, touched her, leaned close to catch her whisper.

“She is—dead!”

Slowly Shefford rose, with a sickening shock, and then in bitter pain he
strode away into the starlight.

VII. SAGO-LILIES

The Indian returned to camp that night, and early the next day, which was
Sunday, Withers rode in, accompanied by a stout, gray-bearded personage
wearing a long black coat.

“Bishop Kane, this is my new man, John Shefford,” said the trader.

Shefford acknowledged the introduction with the respectful courtesy
evidently in order, and found himself being studied intently by clear blue
eyes. The bishop appeared old, dry, and absorbed in thought; he spoke
quaintly, using in every speech some Biblical word or phrase; and he had
an air of authority. He asked Shefford to hear him preach at the morning
service, and then he went off into the village.

“Guess he liked your looks,” remarked Withers.

“He certainly sized me up,” replied Shefford.

“Well, what could you expect? Sure I never heard of a deal like this—a
handsome young fellow left alone with a lot of pretty Mormon women! You’ll
understand when you learn to know Mormons. Bishop Kane’s a square old
chap. Crazy on religion, maybe, but otherwise he’s a good fellow. I made
the best stand I could for you. The Mormons over at Stonebridge were huffy
because I hadn’t consulted them before fetching you over here. If I had,
of course you’d never have gotten here. It was Joe Lake who made it all
right with them. Joe’s well thought of, and he certainly stood up for
you.”

“I owe him something, then,” replied Shefford. “Hope my obligations don’t
grow beyond me. Did you leave Joe at Stonebridge?”

“Yes. He wanted to stay, and I had work there that’ll keep him awhile.
Shefford, we got news of Shadd—bad news. The half-breed’s cutting up
rough. His gang shot up some Piutes over here across the line. Then he got
run out of Durango a few weeks ago for murder. A posse of cowboys trailed
him. But he slipped them. He’s a fox. You know he was trailing us here. He
left the trail, Nas Ta Bega said. I learned at Stonebridge that Shadd is
well disposed toward Mormons. It takes the Mormons to handle Indians.
Shadd knows of this village and that’s why he shunted off our trail. But
he might hang down in the pass and wait for us. I think I’d better go back
to Kayenta alone, across country. You stay here till Joe and the Indian
think it safe to leave. You’ll be going up on the slope of Navajo to load
a pack-train, and from there it may be well to go down West canyon to Red
Lake, and home over the divide, the way you came. Joe’ll decide what’s
best. And you might as well buckle on a gun and get used to it. Sooner or
later you’ll have to shoot your way through.”

Shefford did not respond with his usual enthusiasm, and the omission
caused the trader to scrutinize him closely.

“What’s the matter?” he queried. “There’s no light in your eye to-day. You
look a little shady.”

“I didn’t rest well last night,” replied Shefford. “I’m depressed this
morning. But I’ll cheer up directly.”

“Did you get along with the women?”

“Very well indeed. And I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s a strange, beautiful
place.”

“Do you like the women?”

“Yes.”

“Have you seen much of the Sago Lily?”

“No. I carried her bucket one night—and saw her only once again.
I’ve been with the other women most of the time.”

“It’s just as well you didn’t run often into Mary. Joe’s sick over her. I
never saw a girl with a face and form to equal hers. There’s danger here
for any man, Shefford. Even for you who think you’ve turned your back on
the world! Any of these Mormon women may fall in love with you. They CAN’T
love their husbands. That’s how I figure it. Religion holds them, not
love. And the peculiar thing is this: they’re second, third, or fourth
wives, all sealed. That means their husbands are old, have picked them out
for youth and physical charms, have chosen the very opposite to their
first wives, and then have hidden them here in this lonely hole…. Did
you ever imagine so terrible a thing?”

“No, Withers, I did not.”

“Maybe that’s what depressed you. Anyway, my hunch is worth taking. Be as
nice as you can, Shefford. Lord knows it would be good for these poor
women if every last one of them fell in love with you. That won’t hurt
them so long as you keep your head. Savvy? Perhaps I seem rough and coarse
to a man of your class. Well, that may be. But human nature is human
nature. And in this strange and beautiful place you might love an Indian
girl, let alone the Sago Lily. That’s all. I sure feel better with that
load off my conscience. Hope I don’t offend.”

“No indeed. I thank you, Withers,” replied Shefford, with his hand on the
trader’s shoulder. “You are right to caution me. I seem to be wild—thirsting
for adventure—chasing a gleam. In these unstable days I can’t answer
for my heart. But I can for my honor. These unfortunate women are as safe
with me as—as they are with you and Joe.”

Withers uttered a blunt laugh.

“See here, son, look things square in the eye. Men of violent, lonely,
toilsome lives store up hunger for the love of woman. Love of a STRANGE
woman, if you want to put it that way. It’s nature. It seems all the
beautiful young women in Utah are corralled in this valley. When I come
over here I feel natural, but I’m not happy. I’d like to make love to—to
that flower-faced girl. And I’m not ashamed to own it. I’ve told Molly, my
wife, and she understands. As for Joe, it’s much harder for him. Joe never
has had a wife or sweetheart. I tell you he’s sick, and if I’d stay here a
month I’d be sick.”

Withers had spoken with fire in his eyes, with grim humor on his lips,
with uncompromising brutal truth. What he admitted was astounding to
Shefford, but, once spoken, not at all strange. The trader was a man who
spoke his inmost thought. And what he said suddenly focused Shefford’s
mental vision clear and whole upon the appalling significance of the
tragedy of those women, especially of the girl whose life was lonelier,
sadder, darker than that of the others.

“Withers, trust me,” replied Shefford.

“All right. Make the best of a bad job,” said the trader, and went off
about his tasks.

Shefford and Withers attended the morning service, which was held in the
school-house. Exclusive of the children every inhabitant of the village
was there. The women, except the few eldest, were dressed in white and
looked exceedingly well. Manifestly they had bestowed care upon this
Sabbath morning’s toilet. One thing surely this dress occasion brought
out, and it was evidence that the Mormon women were not poor, whatever
their misfortunes might be. Jewelry was not wanting, nor fine lace. And
they all wore beautiful wild flowers of a kind unknown to Shefford. He
received many a bright smile. He looked for Mary, hoping to see her face
for the first time in the daylight, but she sat far forward and did not
turn. He saw her graceful white neck, the fine lines of her throat, and
her colorless cheek. He recognized her, yet in the light she seemed a
stranger.

The service began with a short prayer and was followed by the singing of a
hymn. Nowhere had Shefford heard better music or sweeter voices. How
deeply they affected him! Had any man ever fallen into a stranger
adventure than this? He had only to shut his eyes to believe it all a
creation of his fancy—the square log cabin with its red mud between
the chinks and a roof like an Indian hogan—the old bishop in his
black coat, standing solemnly, his hand beating time to the tune—the
few old women, dignified and stately—the many young women, fresh and
handsome, lifting their voices.

Shefford listened intently to the bishop’s sermon. In some respects it was
the best he had ever heard. In others it was impossible for an intelligent
man to regard seriously. It was very long, lasting an hour and a half, and
the parts that were helpful to Shefford came from the experience and
wisdom of a man who had grown old in the desert. The physical things that
had molded characters of iron, the obstacles that only strong, patient men
could have overcome, the making of homes in a wilderness, showed the
greatness of this alien band of Mormons. Shefford conceded greatness to
them. But the strange religion—the narrowing down of the world to
the soil of Utah, the intimations of prophets on earth who had direct
converse with God, the austere self-conscious omnipotence of this old
bishop—these were matters that Shefford felt he must understand
better, and see more favorably, if he were not to consider them
impossible.

Immediately after the service, forgetting that his intention had been to
get the long-waited-for look at Mary in the light of the sun, Shefford
hurried back to camp and to a secluded spot among the cedars. Strikingly
it had come to him that the fault he had found in Gentile religion he now
found in the Mormon religion. An old question returned to haunt him—were
all religions the same in blindness? As far as he could see, religion
existed to uphold the founders of a Church, a creed. The Church of his own
kind was a place where narrow men and women went to think of their own
salvation. They did not go there to think of others. And now Shefford’s
keen mind saw something of Mormonism and found it wanting. Bishop Kane was
a sincere, good, mistaken man. He believed what he preached, but that
would not stand logic. He taught blindness and mostly it appeared to be
directed at the women. Was there no religion divorced from power, no
religion as good for one man as another, no religion in the spirit of
brotherly love? Nas Ta Bega’s “Bi Nai” (brother)—that was love, if
not religion, and perhaps the one and the other were the same. Shefford
kept in mind an intention to ask Nas Ta Bega what he thought of the
Mormons.

Later, when opportunity afforded, he did speak to the Indian. Nas Ta Bega
threw away his cigarette and made an impressive gesture that conveyed as
much sorrow as scorn.

“The first Mormon said God spoke to him and told him to go to a certain
place and dig. He went there and found the Book of Mormon. It said follow
me, marry many wives, go into the desert and multiply, send your sons out
into the world and bring us young women, many young women. And when the
first Mormon became strong with many followers he said again: Give to me
part of your labor—of your cattle and sheep—of your silver—that
I may build me great cathedrals for you to worship in. And I will commune
with God and make it right and good that you have more wives. That is
Mormonism.”

“Nas Ta Bega, you mean the Mormons are a great and good people blindly
following a leader?”

“Yes. And the leader builds for himself—not for them.”

“That is not religion. He has no God but himself.”

“They have no God. They are blind like the Mokis who have the creeping
growths on their eyes. They have no God they can see and hear and feel,
who is with them day and night.”

It was late in the afternoon when Bishop Kane rode through the camp and
halted on his way to speak to Shefford. He was kind and fatherly. “Young
man, are you open to faith?” he questioned gravely.

“I think I am,” replied Shefford, thankful he could answer readily.

“Then come into the fold. You are a lost sheep. ‘Away on the desert I
heard its cry.’… God bless you. Visit me when you ride to Stonebridge.”

He flicked his horse with a cedar branch and trotted away beside the
trader, and presently the green-choked neck of the valley hid them from
view. Shefford could not have said that he was glad to be left behind, and
yet neither was he sorry.

That Sabbath evening as he sat quietly with Nas Ta Bega, watching the
sunset gilding the peaks, he was visited by three of the young Mormon
women—Ruth, Joan, and Hester. They deliberately sought him and
merrily led him off to the village and to the evening service of singing
and prayer. Afterward he was surrounded and made much of. He had been
popular before, but this was different. When he thoughtfully wended his
way campward under the quiet stars he realized that the coming of Bishop
Kane had made a subtle change in the women. That change was at first hard
to define, but from every point by which he approached it he came to the
same conclusion—the bishop had not objected to his presence in the
village. The women became natural, free, and unrestrained. A dozen or
twenty young and attractive women thrown much into companionship with one
man. He might become a Mormon. The idea made him laugh. But upon
reflection it was not funny; it sobered him. What a situation! He felt
instinctively that he ought to fly from this hidden valley. But he could
not have done it, even had he not been in the trader’s employ. The thing
was provokingly seductive. It was like an Arabian Nights’ tale. What could
these strange, fatally bound women do? Would any one of them become
involved in sweet toils such as were possible to him? He was no fool.
Already eyes had flashed and lips had smiled.

A thousand like thoughts whirled through his mind. And when he had calmed
down somewhat two things were not lost upon him—an intricate and
fascinating situation, with no end to its possibilities, threatened and
attracted him—and the certainty that, whatever change the bishop had
inaugurated, it had made these poor women happier. The latter fact weighed
more with Shefford than fears for himself. His word was given to Withers.
He would have felt just the same without having bound himself. Still, in
the light of the trader’s blunt philosophy, and of his own assurance that
he was no fool, Shefford felt it incumbent upon him to accept a belief
that there were situations no man could resist without an anchor. The
ingenuity of man could not have devised a stranger, a more enticing, a
more overpoweringly fatal situation. Fatal in that it could not be left
untried! Shefford gave in and clicked his teeth as he let himself go. And
suddenly he thought of her whom these bitter women called the Sago Lily.

The regret that had been his returned with thought of her. The saddest
disillusion of his life, the keenest disappointment, the strangest pain,
would always be associated with her. He had meant to see her face once,
clear in the sunlight, so that he could always remember it, and then never
go near her again. And now it came to him that if he did see much of her
these other women would find him like the stone wall in the valley. Folly!
Perhaps it was, but she would be safe, maybe happier. When he decided, it
was certain that he trembled.

Then he buried the memory of Fay Larkin.

Next day Shefford threw himself with all the boy left in him into the work
and play of the village. He helped the women and made games for the
children. And he talked or listened. In the early evening he called on
Ruth, chatted awhile, and went on to see Joan, and from her to another.
When the valley became shrouded in darkness he went unseen down the path
to Mary’s lonely home.

She was there, a white shadow against the black.

When she replied to his greeting her voice seemed full, broken, eager to
express something that would not come. She was happier to see him than she
should have been, Shefford thought. He talked, swiftly, eloquently, about
whatever he believed would interest her. He stayed long, and finally left,
not having seen her face except in pale starlight and shadow; and the
strong clasp of her hand remained with him as he went away under the
pinyons.

Days passed swiftly. Joe Lake did not return. The Indian rode in and out
of camp, watered and guarded the pack-burros and the mustangs. Shefford
grew strong and active. He made gardens for the women; he cut cords of
fire-wood; he dammed the brook and made an irrigation ditch; he learned to
love these fatherless children, and they loved him.

In the afternoons there was leisure for him and for the women. He had no
favorites, and let the occasion decide what he should do and with whom he
should be. They had little parties at the cottages and picnics under the
cedars. He rode up and down the valley with Ruth, who could ride a horse
as no other girl he had ever seen. He climbed with Hester. He walked with
Joan. Mostly he contrived to include several at once in the little
excursions, though it was not rare for him to be out alone with one.

It was not a game he was playing. More and more, as he learned to know
these young women, he liked them better, he pitied them, he was good for
them. It shamed him, hurt him, somehow, to see how they tried to forget
something when they were with him. Not improbably a little of it was
coquetry, as natural as a laugh to any pretty woman. But that was not what
hurt him. It was to see Ruth or Rebecca, as the case might be, full of
life and fun, thoroughly enjoying some jest or play, all of a sudden be
strangely recalled from the wholesome pleasure of a girl to become a deep
and somber woman. The crimes in the name of religion! How he thought of
the blood and the ruin laid at the door of religion! He wondered if that
were so with Nas Ta Bega’s religion, and he meant to find out some day.
The women he liked best he imagined the least religious, and they made
less effort to attract him.

Every night in the dark he went to Mary’s home and sat with her on the
porch. He never went inside. For all he knew, his visits were unknown to
her neighbors. Still, it did not matter to him if they found out. To her
he could talk as he had never talked to any one. She liberated all his
thought and fancy. He filled her mind.

As there had been a change in the other women, so was there in Mary;
however, it had no relation to the bishop’s visit. The time came when
Shefford could not but see that she lived and dragged through the long day
for the sake of those few hours in the shadow of the stars with him. She
seldom spoke. She listened. Wonderful to him—sometimes she laughed—and
it seemed the sound was a ghost of childhood pleasure. When he stopped to
consider that she might fall in love with him he drove the thought from
him. When he realized that his folly had become sweet and that the
sweetness imperiously drew him, he likewise cast off that thought. The
present was enough. And if he had any treasures of mind and heart he gave
them to her.

She never asked him to stay, but she showed that she wanted him to. That
made it hard to go. Still, he never stayed late. The moment of parting was
like a break. Her good-by was sweet, low music; it lingered on his ear; it
bade him come to-morrow night; and it sent him away into the valley to
walk under the stars, a man fighting against himself.

One night at parting, as he tried to see her face in the wan glow of a
clouded moon, he said:

“I’ve been trying to find a sago-lily.”

“Have you never seen one?” she asked.

“No.” He meant to say something with a double meaning, in reference to her
face and the name of the flower, but her unconsciousness made him hold his
tongue. She was wholly unlike the other women.

“I’ll show you where the lilies grow,” she said.

“When?”

“To-morrow. Early in the afternoon I’ll come to the spring. Then I’ll take
you.”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Next morning Joe Lake returned and imparted news that was perturbing to
Shefford. Reports of Shadd had come in to Stonebridge from different
Indian villages; Joe was not inclined to linger long at the camp, and
favored taking the trail with the pack-train.

Shefford discovered that he did not want to leave the valley, and the
knowledge made him reflective. That morning he did not go into the
village, and stayed in camp alone. A depression weighed upon him. It was
dispelled, however, early in the afternoon by the sight of a slender
figure in white swiftly coming down the path to the spring. He had an
appointment with Mary to go to see the sago lilies; everything else
slipped his mind.

Mary wore the long black hood that effectually concealed her face. It made
of her a woman, a Mormon woman, and strangely belied the lithe form and
the braid of gold hair.

“Good day,” she said, putting down her bucket. “Do you still want to go—to
see the lilies?”

“Yes,” replied Shefford, with a short laugh.

“Can you climb?”

“I’ll go where you go.”

Then she set off under the cedars and Shefford stalked at her side. He was
aware that Nas Ta Bega watched them walk away. This day, so far, at least,
Shefford did not feel talkative; and Mary had always been one who mostly
listened. They came at length to a place where the wall rose in low,
smooth swells, not steep, but certainly at an angle Shefford would not of
his own accord have attempted to scale.

Light, quick, and sure as a mountain-sheep Mary went up the first swell to
an offset above. Shefford, in amaze and admiration, watched the little
moccasins as they flashed and held on to the smooth rock.

When he essayed to follow her he slipped and came to grief. A second
attempt resulted in like failure. Then he backed away from the wall, to
run forward fast and up the slope, only to slip, halfway up, and fall
again.

He made light of the incident, but she was solicitous. When he assured her
he was unhurt she said he had agreed to go where she went.

“But I’m not a—a bird,” he protested.

“Take off your boots. Then you can climb. When we get over the wall it’ll
be easy,” she said.

In his stocking-feet he had no great difficulty walking up the first bulge
of the walls. And from there she led him up the strange waves of wind-worn
rock. He could not attend to anything save the red, polished rock under
him, and so saw little. The ascent was longer than he would have imagined,
and steep enough to make him pant, but at last a huge round summit was
reached.

From here he saw down into the valley where the village lay. But for the
lazy columns of blue smoke curling up from the pinyons the place would
have seemed uninhabited. The wall on the other side was about level with
the one upon which he stood. Beyond rose other walls and cliffs, up and up
to the great towering peaks between which the green-and-black mountain
loomed. Facing the other way, Shefford had only a restricted view. There
were low crags and smooth stone ridges, between which were aisles green
with cedar and pinon. Shefford’s companion headed toward one of these, and
when he had followed her a few steps he could no longer see down into the
valley. The Mormon village where she lived was as if it were lost, and
when it vanished Shefford felt a difference. Scarcely had the thought
passed when Mary removed the dark hood. Her small head glistened like gold
in the sunlight.

Shefford caught up with her and walked at her side, but could not bring
himself at once deliberately to look at her. They entered a narrow,
low-walled lane where cedars and pinyons grew thickly, their fragrance
heavy in the warm air, and flowers began to show in the grassy patches.

“This is Indian paint-brush,” she said, pointing to little, low, scarlet
flowers. A gray sage-bush with beautiful purple blossoms she called purple
sage; another bush with yellow flowers she named buck-brush, and there
were vermilion cacti and low, flat mounds of lavender daisies which she
said had no name. A whole mossy bank was covered with lace like green
leaves and tiny blossoms the color of violets, which she called loco.

“Loco? Is this what makes the horses go crazy when they eat it?” he asked.

“It is, indeed,” she said, laughing.

When she laughed it was impossible not to look at her. She walked a little
in advance. Her white cheek and temple seemed framed in the gold of her
hair. How white her skin! But it was like pearl, faintly veined and
flushed. The profile, clear-cut and pure, appeared cold, almost stern. He
knew now that she was singularly beautiful, though he had yet to see her
full face.

They walked on. Quite suddenly the lane opened out between two rounded
bluffs, and Shefford looked down upon a grander and more awe-inspiring
scene than ever he had viewed in his dreams.

What appeared to be a green mountainside sloped endlessly down to a plain,
and that rolled and billowed away to a boundless region of strangely
carved rock. The greatness of the scene could not be grasped in a glance.
The slope was long; the plain not as level as it seemed to be on first
sight; here and there round, red rocks, isolated and strange, like lonely
castles, rose out of the green. Beyond the green all the earth seemed
naked, showing smooth, glistening bones. It was a formidable wall of rock
that flung itself up in the distance, carved into a thousand canyon and
walls and domes and peaks, and there was not a straight nor a broken nor a
jagged line in all that wildness. The color low down was red, dark blue,
and purple in the clefts, yellow upon the heights, and in the distance
rainbow-hued. A land of curves and color!

Shefford uttered an exclamation.

“That’s Utah,” said Mary. “I come often to sit here. You see that winding
blue line. There…. That’s San Juan canyon. And the other dark line,
that’s Escalante canyon. They wind down into this great purple chasm—’way
over here to the left—and that’s the Grand canyon. They say not even
the Indians have been in there.”

Shefford had nothing to say. The moment was one of subtle and vital
assimilation. Such places as this to be unknown to men! What strength,
what wonder, what help, what glory, just to sit there an hour, slowly and
appallingly to realize! Something came to Shefford from the distance, out
of the purple canyon and from those dim, wind-worn peaks. He resolved to
come here to this promontory again and again, alone and in humble spirit,
and learn to know why he had been silenced, why peace pervaded his soul.

It was with this emotion upon him that he turned to find his companion
watching him. Then for the first time he saw her face fully, and was
thrilled that chance had reserved the privilege for this moment. It was a
girl’s face he saw, flower-like, lovely and pure as a Madonna’s, and
strangely, tragically sad. The eyes were large, dark gray, the color of
the sage. They were as clear as the air which made distant things close,
and yet they seemed full of shadows, like a ruffled pool under midnight
stars. They disturbed him. Her mouth had the sweet curves and redness of
youth, but it showed bitterness, pain, and repression.

“Where are the sago-lilies?” he asked, suddenly.

“Farther down. It’s too cold up here for them. Come,” she said.

He followed her down a winding trail—down and down till the green
plain rose to blot out the scrawled wall of rock, down into a verdant
canyon where a brook made swift music over stones, where the air was
sultry and hot, laden with the fragrant breath of flower and leaf. This
was a canyon of summer, and it bloomed.

The girl bent and plucked something from the grass.

“Here’s a white lily,” she said. “There are three colors. The yellow and
pink ones are deeper down in the canyon.”

Shefford took the flower and regarded it with great interest. He had never
seen such an exquisite thing. It had three large petals, curving cuplike,
of a whiteness purer than new-fallen snow, and a heart of rich, warm gold.
Its fragrance was so faint as to be almost indistinguishable, yet of a
haunting, unforgettable sweetness. And even while he looked at it the
petals drooped and their whiteness shaded and the gold paled. In a moment
the flower was wilted.

“I don’t like to pluck the lilies,” said Mary. “They die so swiftly.”

Shefford saw the white flowers everywhere in the open, sunny places along
the brook. They swayed with stately grace in the slow, warm wind. They
seemed like three-pointed stars shining out of the green. He bent over one
with a particularly lofty stem, and after a close survey of it he rose to
look at her face. His action was plainly one of comparison. She laughed
and said it was foolish for the women to call her the Sago Lily. She had
no coquetry; she spoke as she would have spoken of the stones at her feet;
she did not know that she was beautiful. Shefford imagined there was some
resemblance in her to the lily—the same whiteness, the same rich
gold, and, more striking than either, a strange, rare quality of beauty,
of life, intangible as something fleeting, the spirit that had swiftly
faded from the plucked flower. Where had the girl been born—what had
her life been? Shefford was intensely curious about her. She seemed as
different from any other women he had known as this rare canyon lily was
different from the tame flowers at home.

On the return up the slope she outstripped him. She climbed lightly and
tirelessly. When he reached her upon the promontory there was a stain of
red in her cheeks and her expression had changed.

“Let’s go back up over the rocks,” she said. “I’ve not climbed for—for
so long.”

“I’ll go where you go,” he replied.

Then she was off, and he followed. She took to the curves of the bare
rocks and climbed. He sensed a spirit released in her. It was so strange,
so keen, so wonderful to be with her, and when he did catch her he feared
to speak lest he break this mood. Her eyes grew dark and daring, and often
she stopped to look away across the wavy sea of stones to something beyond
the great walls. When they got high the wind blew her hair loose and it
flew out, a golden stream, with the sun bright upon it. He saw that she
changed her direction, which had been in line with the two peaks, and now
she climbed toward the heights. They came to a more difficult ascent,
where the stone still held to the smooth curves, yet was marked by steep
bulges and slants and crevices. Here she became a wild thing. She ran, she
leaped, she would have left him far behind had he not called. Then she
appeared to remember him and waited.

Her face had now lost its whiteness; it was flushed, rosy, warm.

“Where—did you—ever learn—to run over rocks—this
way?” he panted.

“All my life I’ve climbed,” she said. “Ah! it’s so good to be up on the
walls again—to feel the wind—to see!”

Thereafter he kept close to her, no matter what the effort. He would not
miss a moment of her, if he could help it. She was wonderful. He imagined
she must be like an Indian girl, or a savage who loved the lofty places
and the silence. When she leaped she uttered a strange, low, sweet cry of
wildness and exultation. Shefford guessed she was a girl freed from her
prison, forgetting herself, living again youthful hours. Still she did not
forget him. She waited for him at the bad places, lent him a strong hand,
and sometimes let it stay long in his clasp. Tireless and agile,
sure-footed as a goat, fleet and wild she leaped and climbed and ran until
Shefford marveled at her. This adventure was indeed fulfilment of a dream.
Perhaps she might lead him to the treasure at the foot of the rainbow. But
that thought, sad with memory daring forth from its grave, was irrevocably
linked with a girl who was dead. He could not remember her, in the
presence of this wonderful creature who was as strange as she was
beautiful. When Shefford reached for the brown hand stretched forth to
help him in a leap, when he felt its strong clasp, the youth and vitality
and life of it, he had the fear of a man who was running towards a
precipice and who could not draw back. This was a climb, a lark, a wild
race to the Mormon girl, bound now in the village, and by the very freedom
of it she betrayed her bonds. To Shefford it was also a wild race, but
toward one sure goal he dared not name.

They went on, and at length, hand in hand, even where no steep step or
wide fissure gave reason for the clasp. But she seemed unconscious. They
were nearing the last height, a bare eminence, when she broke from him and
ran up the smooth stone. When he surmounted it she was standing on the
very summit, her arms wide, her full breast heaving, her slender body
straight as an Indian’s, her hair flying in the wind and blazing in the
sun. She seemed to embrace the west, to reach for something afar, to offer
herself to the wind and distance. Her face was scarlet from the exertion
of the climb, and her broad brow was moist. Her eyes had the piercing
light of an eagle’s, though now they were dark. Shefford instinctively
grasped the essence of this strange spirit, primitive and wild. She was
not the woman who had met him at the spring. She had dropped some side of
her with that Mormon hood, and now she stood totally strange.

She belonged up here, he divined. She was a part of that wildness. She
must have been born and brought up in loneliness, where the wind blew and
the peaks loomed and silence held dominion. The sinking sun touched the
rim of the distant wall, and as if in parting regret shone with renewed
golden fire. And the girl was crowned as with a glory.

Shefford loved her then. Realizing it, he thought he might have loved her
before, but that did not matter when he was certain of it now. He trembled
a little, fearfully, though without regret. Everything pertaining to his
desert experience had been strange—this the strangest of all.

The sun sank swiftly, and instantly there was a change in the golden
light. Quickly it died out. The girl changed as swiftly. She seemed to
remember herself, and sat down as if suddenly weary. Shefford went closer
and seated himself beside her.

“The sun has set. We must go,” she said. But she made no movement.

“Whenever you are ready,” replied he.

Just as the blaze had died out of her eyes, so the flush faded out of her
face. The whiteness stole back, and with it the sadness. He had to bite
his tongue to keep from telling her what he felt, to keep from pouring out
a thousand questions. But the privilege of having seen her, of having been
with her when she had forgotten herself—that he believed was enough.
It had been wonderful; it had made him love her But it need not add to the
tragedy of her life, whatever that was. He tried to eliminate himself. And
he watched her.

Her eyes were fixed upon the gold-rimmed ramparts of the distant wall in
the west. Plain it was how she loved that wild upland. And there seemed to
be some haunting memory of the past in her gaze—some happy part of
life, agonizing to think of now.

“We must go,” she said, and rose.

Shefford rose to accompany her. She looked at him, and her haunting eyes
seemed to want him to know that he had helped her to forget the present,
to remember girlhood, and that somehow she would always associate a
wonderful happy afternoon with him. He divined that her silence then was a
Mormon seal on lips.

“Mary, this has been the happiest, the best, the most revealing day of my
life,” he said, simply.

Swiftly, as if startled, she turned and faced down the slope. At the top
of the wall above the village she put on the dark hood, and with it that
somber something which was Mormon.

Twilight had descended into the valley, and shadows were so thick Shefford
had difficulty in finding Mary’s bucket. He filled it at the spring, and
made offer to carry it home for her, which she declined.

“You’ll come to-night—later?” she asked.

“Yes,” he replied, hurriedly promising. Then he watched her white form
slowly glide down the path to disappear in the shadows.

Nas Ta Bega and Joe were busy at the camp-fire. Shefford joined them. This
night he was uncommunicative. Joe peered curiously at him in the flare of
the blaze. Later, after the meal, when Shefford appeared restless and
strode to and fro, Joe spoke up gruffly:

“Better hang round camp to-night.”

Shefford heard, but did not heed. Nevertheless, the purport of the remark,
which was either jealousy or admonition, haunted him with the possibility
of its meaning.

He walked away from the camp-fire, under the dark pinyons, out into the
starry open; and every step was hard to take, unless it pointed toward the
home of the girl whose beauty and sadness and mystery had bewitched him.
After what seemed hours he took the well-known path toward her cabin, and
then every step seemed lighter. He divined he was rushing to some fate—he
knew not what.

The porch was in shadow. He peered in vain for the white form against the
dark background. In the silence he seemed to hear his heart-beats thick
and muffled.

Some distance down the path he heard the sound of hoofs. Withdrawing into
the gloom of a cedar, he watched. Soon he made out moving horses with
riders. They filed past him to the number of half a score. Like a flash of
fire the truth burned him. Mormons come for one of those mysterious night
visits to sealed wives!

Shefford stalked far down the valley, into the lonely silence and the
night shadows under the walls.

VIII. THE HOGAN OF NAS TA BEGA

The home of Nas Ta Bega lay far up the cedared slope, with the craggy
yellow cliffs and the black canyon and the pine-fringed top of Navajo
Mountain behind, and to the fore the vast, rolling descent of cedar groves
and sage flats and sandy washes. No dim, dark range made bold outline
along the horizon; the stretch of gray and purple and green extended to
the blue line of sky.

Down the length of one sage level Shefford saw a long lane where the brush
and the grass had been beaten flat. This, the Navajo said, was a track
where the young braves had raced their mustangs and had striven for
supremacy before the eyes of maidens and the old people of the tribe.

“Nas Ta Bega, did you ever race here?” asked Shefford.

“I am a chief by birth. But I was stolen from my home, and now I cannot
ride well enough to race the braves of my tribe,” the Indian replied,
bitterly.

In another place Joe Lake halted his horse and called Shefford’s attention
to a big yellow rock lying along the trail. And then he spoke in Navajo to
the Indian.

“I’ve heard of this stone—Isende Aha,” said Joe, after Nas Ta Bega
had spoken. “Get down, and let’s see.” Shefford dismounted, but the Indian
kept his seat in the saddle.

Joe placed a big hand on the stone and tried to move it. According to
Shefford’s eye measurement the stone was nearly oval, perhaps three feet
high, by a little over two in width. Joe threw off his sombrero, took a
deep breath, and, bending over, clasped the stone in his arms. He was an
exceedingly heavy and powerful man, and it was plain to Shefford that he
meant to lift the stone if that were possible. Joe’s broad shoulders
strained, flattened; his arms bulged, his joints cracked, his neck corded,
and his face turned black. By gigantic effort he lifted the stone and
moved it about six inches. Then as he released his hold he fell, and when
he sat up his face was wet with sweat.

“Try it,” he said to Shefford, with his lazy smile. “See if you can heave
it.”

Shefford was strong, and there had been a time when he took pride in his
strength. Something in Joe’s supreme effort and in the gloom of the
Indian’s eyes made Shefford curious about this stone. He bent over and
grasped it as Joe had done. He braced himself and lifted with all his
power, until a red blur obscured his sight and shooting stars seemed to
explode in his head. But he could not even stir the stone.

“Shefford, maybe you’ll be able to heft it some day,” observed Joe. Then
he pointed to the stone and addressed Nas Ta Bega.

The Indian shook his head and spoke for a moment.

“This is the Isende Aha of the Navajos,” explained Joe. “The young braves
are always trying to carry this stone. As soon as one of them can carry it
he is a man. He who carries it farthest is the biggest man. And just so
soon as any Indian can no longer lift it he is old. Nas Ta Bega says the
stone has been carried two miles in his lifetime. His own father carried
it the length of six steps.”

“Well! It’s plain to me that I am not a man,” said Shefford, “or else I am
old.”

Joe Lake drawled his lazy laugh and, mounting, rode up the trail. But
Shefford lingered beside the Indian.

“Bi Nai,” said Nas Ta Bega, “I am a chief of my tribe, but I have never
been a man. I never lifted that stone. See what the pale-face education
has done for the Indian!”

The Navajo’s bitterness made Shefford thoughtful. Could greater injury be
done to man than this—to rob him of his heritage of strength?

Joe drove the bobbing pack-train of burros into the cedars where the smoke
of the hogans curled upward, and soon the whistling of mustangs, the
barking of dogs, the bleating of sheep, told of his reception. And
presently Shefford was in the midst of an animated scene. Great, woolly,
fierce dogs, like wolves, ran out to meet the visitors. Sheep and goats
were everywhere, and little lambs scarcely able to walk, with others
frisky and frolicsome. There were pure-white lambs, and some that appeared
to be painted, and some so beautiful with their fleecy white all except
black faces or ears or tails or feet. They ran right under Nack-yal’s legs
and bumped against Shefford, and kept bleating their thin-piped welcome.
Under the cedars surrounding the several hogans were mustangs that took
Shefford’s eye. He saw an iron-gray with white mane and tail sweeping to
the ground; and a fiery black, wilder than any other beast he had ever
seen; and a pinto as wonderfully painted as the little lambs; and, most
striking of all, a pure, cream-colored mustang with grace and fine lines
and beautiful mane and tail, and, strange to see, eyes as blue as azure.
This albino mustang came right up to Shefford, an action in singular
contrast with that of the others, and showed a tame and friendly spirit
toward him and Nack-yal. Indeed, Shefford had reason to feel ashamed of
Nack-yal’s temper or jealousy.

The first Indians to put in an appearance were a flock of children, half
naked, with tangled manes of raven-black hair and skin like gold bronze.
They appeared bold and shy by turns. Then a little, sinewy man, old and
beaten and gray, came out of the principal hogan. He wore a blanket round
his bent shoulders. His name was Hosteen Doetin, and it meant gentle man.
His fine, old, wrinkled face lighted with a smile of kindly interest. His
squaw followed him, and she was as venerable as he. Shefford caught a
glimpse of the shy, dark Glen Naspa, Nas Ta Bega’s sister, but she did not
come out. Other Indians appeared, coming from adjacent hogans.

Nas Ta Bega turned the mustangs loose among those Shefford had noticed,
and presently there rose a snorting, whistling, kicking, plunging melee. A
cloud of dust hid them, and then a thudding of swift hoofs told of a run
through the cedars. Joe Lake began picking over stacks of goat-skins and
bags of wool that were piled against the hogan.

“Reckon we’ll have one grand job packing out this load,” he growled. “It’s
not so heavy, but awkward to pack.”

It developed, presently, from talk with the old Navajo, that this pile was
only a half of the load to be packed to Kayenta, and the other half was
round the corner of the mountain in the camp of Piutes. Hosteen Doetin
said he would send to the camp and have the Piutes bring their share over.
The suggestion suited Joe, who wanted to save his burros as much as
possible. Accordingly, a messenger was despatched to the Piute camp. And
Shefford, with time on his hands and poignant memory to combat, decided to
recall his keen interest in the Navajo, and learn, if possible, what the
Indian’s life was like. What would a day of his natural life be?

In the gray of dawn, when the hush of the desert night still lay deep over
the land, the Navajo stirred in his blanket and began to chant to the
morning light. It began very soft and low, a strange, broken murmur, like
the music of a brook, and as it swelled that weird and mournful tone was
slowly lost in one of hope and joy. The Indian’s soul was coming out of
night, blackness, the sleep that resembled death, into the day, the light
that was life.

Then he stood in the door of his hogan, his blanket around him, and faced
the east.

Night was lifting out of the clefts and ravines; the rolling cedar ridges
and the sage flats were softly gray, with thin veils like smoke
mysteriously rising and vanishing; the colorless rocks were changing. A
long, horizon-wide gleam of light, rosiest in the center, lay low down in
the east and momentarily brightened. One by one the stars in the deep-blue
sky paled and went out and the blue dome changed and lightened. Night had
vanished on invisible wings and silence broke to the music of a
mockingbird. The rose in the east deepened; a wisp of cloud turned gold;
dim distant mountains showed dark against the red; and low down in a notch
a rim of fire appeared. Over the soft ridges and valleys crept a wondrous
transfiguration. It was as if every blade of grass, every leaf of sage,
every twig of cedar, the flowers, the trees, the rocks came to life at
sight of the sun. The red disk rose, and a golden fire burned over the
glowing face of that lonely waste.

The Navajo, dark, stately, inscrutable, faced the sun—his god. This
was his Great Spirit. The desert was his mother, but the sun was his life.
To the keeper of the winds and rains, to the master of light, to the maker
of fire, to the giver of life the Navajo sent up his prayer:

Hope and faith were his.

A chief would be born to save the vanishing tribe of Navajos. A bride
would rise from a wind—kiss of the lilies in the moonlight.

He drank from the clear, cold spring bubbling from under mossy rocks. He
went into the cedars, and the tracks in the trails told him of the
visitors of night. His mustangs whistled to him from the ridge-tops,
standing clear with heads up and manes flying, and then trooped down
through the sage. The shepherd-dogs, guardians of the flocks, barked him a
welcome, and the sheep bleated and the lambs pattered round him.

In the hogan by the warm, red fire his women baked his bread and cooked
his meat. And he satisfied his hunger. Then he took choice meat to the
hogan of a sick relative, and joined in the song and the dance and the
prayer that drove away the evil spirit of illness. Down in the valley, in
a sandy, sunny place, was his corn-field, and here he turned in the water
from the ditch, and worked awhile, and went his contented way.

He loved his people, his women, and his children. To his son he said: “Be
bold and brave. Grow like the pine. Work and ride and play that you may be
strong. Talk straight. Love your brother. Give half to your friend. Honor
your mother that you may honor your wife. Pray and listen to your gods.”

Then with his gun and his mustang he climbed the slope of the mountain. He
loved the solitude, but he was never alone. There were voices on the wind
and steps on his trail. The lofty pine, the lichened rock, the tiny
bluebell, the seared crag—all whispered their secrets. For him their
spirits spoke. In the morning light Old Stone Face, the mountain, was a
red god calling him to the chase. He was a brother of the eagle, at home
on the heights where the winds swept and the earth lay revealed below.

In the golden afternoon, with the warm sun on his back and the blue canyon
at his feet, he knew the joy of doing nothing. He did not need rest, for
he was never tired. The sage-sweet breath of the open was thick in his
nostrils, the silence that had so many whisperings was all about him, the
loneliness of the wild was his. His falcon eye saw mustang and sheep, the
puff of dust down on the cedar level, the Indian riding on a distant
ridge, the gray walls, and the blue clefts. Here was home, still free,
still wild, still untainted. He saw with the eyes of his ancestors. He
felt them around him. They had gone into the elements from which their
voices came on the wind. They were the watchers on his trails.

At sunset he faced the west, and this was his prayer:

And he watched the sun go down and the gold sink from the peaks and the
red die out of the west and the gray shadows creep out of the canyon to
meet the twilight and the slow, silent, mysterious approach of night with
its gift of stars.

Night fell. The white stars blinked. The wind sighed in the cedars. The
sheep bleated. The shepherd-dogs bayed the mourning coyotes. And the
Indian lay down in his blankets with his dark face tranquil in the
starlight. All was well in his lonely world. Phantoms hovered, illness
lingered, injury and pain and death were there, the shadow of a strange
white hand flitted across the face of the moon—but now all was well—the
Navajo had prayed to the god of his Fathers. Now all was well!

. . . . . . . . . . .

And this, thought Shefford in revolt, was what the white man had killed in
the Indian tribes, was reaching out now to kill in this wild remnant of
the Navajos. The padre, the trapper, the trader, the prospector, and the
missionary—so the white man had come, some of him good, no doubt,
but more of him evil; and the young brave learned a thirst that could
never be quenched at the cold, sweet spring of his forefathers, and the
young maiden burned with a fever in her blood, and lost the sweet,
strange, wild fancies of her tribe.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Joe Lake came to Shefford and said, “Withers told me you had a mix-up with
a missionary at Red Lake.”

“Yes, I regret to say,” replied Shefford.

“About Glen Naspa?”

“Yes, Nas Ta Bega’s sister.”

“Withers just mentioned it. Who was the missionary?”

“Willetts, so Presbrey, the trader, said.”

“What’d he look like?”

Shefford recalled the smooth, brown face, the dark eyes, the weak chin,
the mild expression, and the soft, lax figure of the missionary.

“Can’t tell by what you said,” went on Joe. “But I’ll bet a peso to a
horse-hair that’s the fellow who’s been here. Old Hosteen Doetin just told
me. First visits he ever had from the priest with the long gown. That’s
what he called the missionary. These old fellows will never forget what’s
come down from father to son about the Spanish padres. Well, anyway,
Willetts has been here twice after Glen Naspa. The old chap is impressed,
but he doesn’t want to let the girl go. I’m inclined to think Glen Naspa
would as lief go as stay. She may be a Navajo, but she’s a girl. She won’t
talk much.”

“Where’s Nas Ta Bega?” asked Shefford.

“He rode off somewhere yesterday. Perhaps to the Piute camp. These Indians
are slow. They may take a week to pack that load over here. But if Nas Ta
Bega or some one doesn’t come with a message to-day I’ll ride over there
myself.”

“Joe, what do you think about this missionary?” queried Shefford, bluntly.

“Reckon there’s not much to think, unless you see him or find out
something. I heard of Willetts before Withers spoke of him. He’s friendly
with Mormons. I understand he’s worked for Mormon interests, someway or
other. That’s on the quiet. Savvy? This matter of him coming after Glen
Naspa, reckon that’s all right. The missionaries all go after the young
people. What’d be the use to try to convert the old Indians? No, the
missionary’s work is to educate the Indian, and, of course, the younger he
is the better.”

“You approve of the missionary?”

“Shefford, if you understood a Mormon you wouldn’t ask that. Did you ever
read or hear of Jacob Hamblin?… Well, he was a Mormon missionary among
the Navajos. The Navajos were as fierce as Apaches till Hamblin worked
among them. He made them friendly to the white man.”

“That doesn’t prove he made converts of them,” replied Shefford, still
bluntly.

“No. For the matter of that, Hamblin let religion alone. He made presents,
then traded with them, then taught them useful knowledge. Mormon or not,
Shefford, I’ll admit this: a good man, strong with his body, and learned
in ways with his hands, with some knowledge of medicine, can better the
condition of these Indians. But just as soon as he begins to preach his
religion, then his influence wanes. That’s natural. These heathen have
their ideals, their gods.”

“Which the white man should leave them!” replied Shefford, feelingly.

“That’s a matter of opinion. But don’t let’s argue…. Willetts is after
Glen Naspa. And if I know Indian girls he’ll persuade her to go to his
school.”

“Persuade her!” Then Shefford broke off and related the incident that had
occurred at Red Lake.

“Reckon any means justifies the end,” replied Joe, imperturbably. “Let him
talk love to her or rope her or beat her, so long as he makes a Christian
of her.”

Shefford felt a hot flush and had difficulty in controlling himself. From
this single point of view the Mormon was impossible to reason with.

“That, too, is a matter of opinion. We won’t discuss it,” continued
Shefford. “But—if old Hosteen Doetin objects to the girl leaving,
and if Nas Ta Bega does the same, won’t that end the matter?”

“Reckon not. The end of the matter is Glen Naspa. If she wants to go
she’ll go.”

Shefford thought best to drop the discussion. For the first time he had
occasion to be repelled by something in this kind and genial Mormon, and
he wanted to forget it. Just as he had never talked about men to the
sealed wives in the hidden valley, so he could not talk of women to Joe
Lake.

Nas Ta Bega did not return that day, but, next morning a messenger came
calling Lake to the Piute camp. Shefford spent the morning high on the
slope, learning more with every hour in the silence and loneliness, that
he was stronger of soul than he had dared to hope, and that the added pain
which had come to him could be borne.

Upon his return toward camp, in the cedar grove, he caught sight of Glen
Naspa with a white man. They did not see him. When Shefford recognized
Willetts an embarrassment as well as an instinct made him halt and step
into a bushy, low-branched cedar. It was not his intention to spy on them.
He merely wanted to avoid a meeting. But the missionary’s hand on the
girl’s arm, and her up-lifted head, her pretty face, strange, intent,
troubled, struck Shefford with an unusual and irresistible curiosity.
Willetts was talking earnestly; Glen Naspa was listening intently.
Shefford watched long enough to see that the girl loved the missionary,
and that he reciprocated or was pretending. His manner scarcely savored of
pretense, Shefford concluded, as he slipped away under the trees.

He did not go at once into camp. He felt troubled, and wished that he had
not encountered the two. His duty in the matter, of course, was to tell
Nas Ta Bega what he had seen. Upon reflection Shefford decided to give the
missionary the benefit of a doubt; and if he really cared for the Indian
girl, and admitted or betrayed it, to think all the better of him for the
fact. Glen Naspa was certainly pretty enough, and probably lovable enough,
to please any lonely man in this desert. The pain and the yearning in
Shefford’s heart made him lenient. He had to fight himself—not to
forget, for that was impossible—but to keep rational and sane when a
white flower-like face haunted him and a voice called.

The cracking of hard hoofs on stones caused him to turn toward camp, and
as he emerged from the cedar grove he saw three Indian horsemen ride into
the cleared space before the hogans. They were superbly mounted and well
armed, and impressed him as being different from Navajos. Perhaps they
were Piutes. They dismounted and led the mustangs down to the pool below
the spring. Shefford saw another mustang, standing bridle down and
carrying a pack behind the saddle. Some squaws with children hanging
behind their skirts were standing at the door of Hosteen Doetin’s hogan.
Shefford glanced in to see Glen Naspa, pale, quiet, almost sullen.
Willetts stood with his hands spread. The old Navajo’s seamed face worked
convulsively as he tried to lift his bent form to some semblance of
dignity, and his voice rolled out, sonorously: “Me no savvy Jesus Christ!
Me hungry! … Me no eat Jesus Christ!”

Shefford drew back as if he had received a blow. That had been Hosteen
Doetin’s reply to the importunities of the missionary. The old Navajo
could work no longer. His sons were gone. His squaw was worn out. He had
no one save Glen Naspa to help him. She was young, strong. He was hungry.
What was the white man’s religion to him?

With long, swift stride Shefford entered the hogan. Willetts, seeing him,
did not look so mild as Shefford had him pictured in memory, nor did he
appear surprised. Shefford touched Hosteen Doetin’s shoulder and said,
“Tell me.”

The aged Navajo lifted a shaking hand.

“Me no savvy Jesus Christ! Me hungry!… Me no eat Jesus Christ!”

Shefford then made signs that indicated the missionary’s intention to take
the girl away. “Him come—big talk—Jesus—all Jesus…. Me
no want Glen Naspa go,” replied the Indian.

Shefford turned to the missionary.

“Willetts, is he a relative of the girl?”

“There’s some blood tie, I don’t know what. But it’s not close,” replied
Willetts.

“Then don’t you think you’d better wait till Nas Ta Bega returns? He’s her
brother.”

“What for?” demanded Willetts. “That Indian may be gone a week. She’s
willing to accompany the missionary.”

Shefford looked at the girl.

“Glen Naspa, do you want to go?”

She was shy, ashamed, and silent, but manifestly willing to accompany the
missionary. Shefford pondered a moment. How he hoped Nas Ta Bega would
come back! It was thought of the Indian that made Shefford stubborn. What
his stand ought to be was hard to define, unless he answered to impulse;
and here in the wilds he had become imbued with the idea that his impulses
and instincts were no longer false.

“Willetts, what do you want with the girl?” queried Shefford, coolly, and
at the question he seemed to find himself. He peered deliberately and
searchingly into the other’s face. The missionary’s gaze shifted and a
tinge of red crept up from under his collar.

“Absurd thing to ask a missionary!” he burst out, impatiently.

“Do you care for Glen Naspa?”

“I care as God’s disciple—who cares to save the soul of heathen,” he
replied, with the lofty tone of prayer.

“Has Glen Naspa no—no other interest in you—except to be
taught religion?”

The missionary’s face flamed, and his violent tremor showed that under his
exterior there was a different man.

“What right have you to question me?” he demanded. “You’re an adventurer—an
outcast. I’ve my duty here. I’m a missionary with Church and state and
government behind me.”

“Yes, I’m an outcast,” replied Shefford, bitterly. “And you may be all you
say. But we’re alone now out here on the desert. And this girl’s brother
is absent. You haven’t answered me yet…. Is there anything between you
and Glen Naspa except religion?”

“No, you insulting beggar?”

Shefford had forced the reply that he had expected and which damned the
missionary beyond any consideration.

“Willetts, you are a liar!” said Shefford, steadily.

“And what are you?” cried Willetts, in shrill fury. “I’ve heard all about
you. Heretic! Atheist! Driven from your Church! Hated and scorned for your
blasphemy!”

Then he gave way to ungovernable rage, and cursed Shefford as a religious
fanatic might have cursed the most debased sinners. Shefford heard with
the blood beating, strangling the pulse in his ears. Somehow this
missionary had learned his secret—most likely from the Mormons in
Stonebridge. And the terms of disgrace were coals of fire upon Shefford’s
head. Strangely, however, he did not bow to them, as had been his humble
act in the past, when his calumniators had arraigned and flayed him.
Passion burned in him now, for the first time in his life, made a tiger of
him. And these raw emotions, new to him, were difficult to control.

“You can’t take the girl,” he replied, when the other had ceased. “Not
without her brother’s consent.”

“I will take her!”

Shefford threw him out of the hogan and strode after him. Willetts had
stumbled. When he straightened up he was white and shaken. He groped for
the bridle of his horse while keeping his eyes upon Shefford, and when he
found it he whirled quickly, mounted, and rode off. Shefford saw him halt
a moment under the cedars to speak with the three strange Indians, and
then he galloped away. It came to Shefford then that he had been
unconscious of the last strained moment of that encounter. He seemed all
cold, tight, locked, and was amazed to find his hand on his gun. Verily
the wild environment had liberated strange instincts and impulses, which
he had answered. That he had no regrets proved how he had changed.

Shefford heard the old woman scolding. Peering into the hogan, he saw Glen
Naspa flounce sullenly down, for all the world like any other thwarted
girl. Hosteen Doetin came out and pointed down the slope at the departing
missionary.

“Heap talk Jesus—all talk—all Jesus!” he exclaimed,
contemptuously. Then he gave Shefford a hard rap on the chest. “Small talk—heap
man!”

The matter appeared to be adjusted for the present. But Shefford felt that
he had made a bitter enemy, and perhaps a powerful one.

He prepared and ate his supper alone that evening, for Joe Lake and Nas Ta
Bega did not put in an appearance. He observed that the three strange
Indians, whom he took for Piutes, kept to themselves, and, so far as he
knew, had no intercourse with any one at the camp. This would not have
seemed unusual, considering the taciturn habit of Indians, had he not
remembered seeing Willetts speak to the trio. What had he to do with them?
Shefford was considering the situation with vague doubts when, to his
relief, the three strangers rode off into the twilight. Then he went to
bed.

He was awakened by violence. It was the gray hour before dawn. Dark forms
knelt over him. A cloth pressed down hard over his mouth: Strong hands
bound it while other strong hands held him. He could not cry out. He could
not struggle. A heavy weight, evidently a man, held down his feet. Then he
was rolled over, securely bound, and carried, to be thrown like a sack
over the back of a horse.

All this happened so swiftly as to be bewildering. He was too astounded to
be frightened. As he hung head downward he saw the legs of a horse and a
dim trail. A stirrup swung to and fro, hitting him in the face. He began
to feel exceedingly uncomfortable, with a rush of blood to his head, and
cramps in his arms and legs. This kept on and grew worse for what seemed a
long time. Then the horse was stopped and a rude hand tumbled him to the
ground. Again he was rolled over on his face. Strong fingers plucked at
his clothes, and he believed he was being searched. His captors were as
silent as if they had been dumb. He felt when they took his pocketbook and
his knife and all that he had. Then they cut, tore, and stripped off all
his clothing. He was lifted, carried a few steps, and dropped upon what
seemed a soft, low mound, and left lying there, still tied and naked.
Shefford heard the rustle of sage and the dull thud of hoofs as his
assailants went away.

His first sensation was one of immeasurable relief. He had not been
murdered. Robbery was nothing. And though roughly handled, he had not been
hurt. He associated the assault with the three strange visitors of the
preceding day. Still, he had no proof of that. Not the slightest clue
remained to help him ascertain who had attacked him.

It might have been a short while or a long one, his mind was so filled
with growing conjectures, but a time came when he felt cold. As he lay
face down, only his back felt cold at first. He was grateful that he had
not been thrown upon the rocks. The ground under him appeared soft,
spongy, and gave somewhat as he breathed. He had really sunk down a little
in this pile of soft earth. The day was not far off, as he could tell by
the brightening of the gray. He began to suffer with the cold, and then
slowly he seemed to freeze and grow numb. In an effort to roll over upon
his back he discovered that his position, or his being bound, or the
numbness of his muscles was responsible for the fact that he could not
move. Here was a predicament. It began to look serious. What would a few
hours of the powerful sun do to his uncovered skin? Somebody would trail
and find him: still, he might not be found soon.

He saw the sky lighten, turn rosy and then gold. The sun shone upon him,
but some time elapsed before he felt its warmth. All of a sudden a pain,
like a sting, shot through his shoulder. He could not see what caused it;
probably a bee. Then he felt another upon his leg, and about
simultaneously with it a tiny, fiery stab in his side. A sickening
sensation pervaded his body, slowly moving, as if poison had entered the
blood of his veins. Then a puncture, as from a hot wire, entered the skin
of his breast. Unmistakably it was a bite. By dint of great effort he
twisted his head to see a big red ant on his breast. Then he heard a faint
sound, so exceedingly faint that he could not tell what it was like. But
presently his strained ears detected a low, swift, rustling, creeping
sound, like the slipping rattle of an infinite number of tiny bits of
moving gravel. Then it was a sound like the seeping of wind-blown sand.
Several hot bites occurred at once. And then with his head twisted he saw
a red stream of ants pour out of the mound and spill over his quivering
flesh.

In an instant he realized his position. He had been dropped intentionally
upon an ant-heap, which had sunk with his weight, wedging him between the
crusts. At the mercy of those terrible desert ants! A frantic effort to
roll out proved futile, as did another and another. His violent muscular
contractions infuriated the ants, and in an instant he was writhing in
pain so horrible and so unendurable that he nearly fainted. But he was too
strong to faint suddenly. A bath of vitriol, a stripping of his skin and
red embers of fire thrown upon raw flesh, could not have equaled this.
There was fury in the bites and poison in the fangs of these ants. Was
this an Indian’s brutal trick or was it the missionary’s revenge? Shefford
realized that it would kill him soon. He sweat what seemed blood, although
perhaps the blood came from the bites. A strange, hollow, buzzing roar
filled his ears, and it must have been the pouring of the angry ants from
their mound.

Then followed a time that was hell—worse than fire, for fire would
have given merciful death—agony under which his physical being began
spasmodically to jerk and retch—and his eyeballs turned and his
breast caved in.

A cry rang through the roar in his ears. “Bi Nai! Bi Nai!”

His fading sight seemed to shade round the dark face of Nas Ta Bega.

Then powerful hands dragged him from the mound, through the grass and
sage, rolled him over and over, and brushed his burning skin with strong,
swift sweep.

IX. IN THE DESERT CRUCIBLE

That hard experience was but the beginning of many cruel trials for John
Shefford.

He never knew who his assailants were, nor their motive other than
robbery; and they had gotten little, for they had not found the large sum
of money sewed in the lining of his coat. Joe Lake declared it was Shadd’s
work, and the Mormon showed the stern nature that lay hidden under his
mild manner. Nas Ta Bega shook his head and would not tell what he
thought. But a somber fire burned in his eyes.

The three started with a heavily laden pack-train and went down the
mountain slope into West canyon. The second day they were shot at from the
rim of the walls. Lake was wounded, hindering the swift flight necessary
to escape deeper into the canyon. Here they hid for days, while the Mormon
recovered and the Indian took stealthy trips to try to locate the enemy.
Lack of water and grass for the burros drove them on. They climbed out of
a side canyon, losing several burros on a rough trail, and had proceeded
to within half a day’s journey of Red Lake when they were attacked while
making camp in a cedar grove. Shefford sustained an exceedingly painful
injury to his leg, but, fortunately, the bullet went through without
breaking a bone. With that burning pain there came to Shefford the meaning
of fight, and his rifle grew hot in his hands. Night alone saved the trio
from certain fatality. Under the cover of darkness the Indian helped
Shefford to escape. Joe Lake looked out for himself. The pack-train was
lost, and the mustangs, except Nack-yal.

Shefford learned what it meant to lie out at night, listening for pursuit,
cold to his marrow, sick with dread, and enduring frightful pain from a
ragged bullet-hole. Next day the Indian led him down into the red basin,
where the sun shone hot and the sand reflected the heat. They had no
water. A wind arose and the valley became a place of flying sand. Through
a heavy, stifling pall Nas Ta Bega somehow got Shefford to the
trading-post at Red Lake. Presbrey attended to Shefford’s injury and made
him comfortable. Next day Joe Lake limped in, surly and somber, with the
news that Shadd and eight or ten of his outlaw gang had gotten away with
the pack-train.

In short time Shefford was able to ride, and with his companions went over
the pass to Kayenta. Withers already knew of his loss, and all he said was
that he hoped to meet Shadd some day.

Shefford showed a reluctance to go again to the hidden village in the
silent canyon with the rounded walls. The trader appeared surprised, but
did not press the point. And Shefford meant sooner or later to tell him,
yet never quite reached the point. The early summer brought more work for
the little post, and Shefford toiled with the others. He liked the outdoor
tasks, and at night was grateful that he was too tired to think. Then
followed trips to Durango and Bluff and Monticello. He rode fifty miles a
day for many days. He knew how a man fares who packs light and rides far
and fast. When the Indian was with him he got along well, but Nas Ta Bega
would not go near the towns. Thus many mishaps were Shefford’s fortune.

Many and many a mile he trailed his mustang, for Nack-yal never forgot the
Sagi, and always headed for it when he broke his hobbles. Shefford
accompanied an Indian teamster in to Durango with a wagon and four wild
mustangs. Upon the return, with a heavy load of supplies, accident put
Shefford in charge of the outfit. In despair he had to face the hardest
task that could have been given him—to take care of a crippled
Indian, catch, water, feed, harness, and drive four wild mustangs that did
not know him and tried to kill him at every turn, and to get that precious
load of supplies home to Kayenta. That he accomplished it proved to hint
the possibilities of a man, for both endurance and patience. From that
time he never gave up in the front of any duty.

In the absence of an available Indian he rode to Durango and back in
record time. Upon one occasion he was lost in a canyon for days, with no
food and little water. Upon another he went through a sand-storm in the
open desert, facing it for forty miles and keeping to the trail; When he
rode in to Kayenta that night the trader, in grim praise, said there was
no worse to endure. At Monticello Shefford stood off a band of
desperadoes, and this time Shefford experienced a strange, sickening shock
in the wounding of a man. Later he had other fights, but in none of them
did he know whether or not he had shed blood.

The heat of midsummer came, when the blistering sun shone, and a hot blast
blew across the sand, and the furious storms made floods in the washes.
Day and night Shefford was always in the open, and any one who had ever
known him in the past would have failed to recognize him now.

In the early fall, with Nas Ta Bega as companion, he set out to the south
of Kayenta upon long-neglected business of the trader. They visited Red
Lake, Blue canyon, Keams canyon, Oribi, the Moki villages, Tuba,
Moencopie, and Moen Ave. This trip took many weeks and gave Shefford all
the opportunity he wanted to study the Indians, and the conditions nearer
to the border of civilization. He learned the truth about the Indians and
the missionaries.

Upon the return trip he rode over the trail he had followed alone to Red
Lake and thence on to the Sagi, and it seemed that years had passed since
he first entered this wild region which had come to be home, years that
had molded him in the stern and fiery crucible of the desert.

X. STONEBRIDGE

In October Shefford arranged for a hunt in the Cresaw Mountains with Joe
Lake and Nas Ta Bega. The Indian had gone home for a short visit, and upon
his return the party expected to start. But Nas Ta Bega did not come back.
Then the arrival of a Piute with news that excited Withers and greatly
perturbed Lake convinced Shefford that something was wrong.

The little trading-post seldom saw such disorder; certainly Shefford had
never known the trader to neglect work. Joe Lake threw a saddle on a
mustang he would have scorned to notice in an ordinary moment, and without
a word of explanation or farewell rode hard to the north on the
Stonebridge trail.

Shefford had long since acquired patience. He was curious, but he did not
care particularly what was in the wind. However, when Withers came out and
sent an Indian to drive up the horses Shefford could not refrain from a
query.

“I hate to tell you,” replied the trader.

“Go on,” added Shefford, quickly.

“Did I tell you about the government sending a Supreme Court judge out to
Utah to prosecute the polygamists?”

“No,” replied Shefford.

“I forgot to, I reckon. You’ve been away a lot. Well, there’s been hell up
in Utah for six months. Lately this judge and his men have worked down
into southern Utah. He visited Bluff and Monticello a few weeks ago….
Now what do you think?”

“Withers! Is he coming to Stonebridge?”

“He’s there now. Some one betrayed the whereabouts of the hidden village
over in the canyon. All the women have been arrested and taken to
Stonebridge. The trial begins to-day.”

“Arrested!” echoed Shefford, blankly. “Those poor, lonely, good women?
What on earth for?”

“Sealed wives!” exclaimed Withers, tersely. “This judge is after the
polygamists. They say he’s absolutely relentless.”

“But—women can’t be polygamists. Their husbands are the ones
wanted.”

“Sure. But the prosecutors have got to find the sealed wives—the
second wives—to find the law-breaking husbands. That’ll be a job, or
I don’t know Mormons…. Are you going to ride over to Stonebridge with
me?”

Shefford shrank at the idea. Months of toil and pain and travail had not
been enough to make him forget the strange girl he had loved. But he had
remembered only at poignant intervals, and the lapse of time had made
thought of her a dream like that sad dream which had lured him into the
desert. With the query of the trader came a bitter-sweet regret.

“Better come with me,” said Withers. “Have you forgotten the Sago Lily?
She’ll be put on trial…. That girl—that child!… Shefford, you
know she hasn’t any friends. And now no Mormon man are protect her, for
fear of prosecution.”

“I’ll go,” replied Shefford, shortly.

The Indian brought up the horses. Nack-yal was thin from his long travel
during the hot summer, but he was as hard as iron, and the way he pointed
his keen nose toward the Sagi showed how he wanted to make for the upland
country, with its clear springs and valleys of grass. Withers mounted his
bay and with a hurried farewell to his wife spurred the mustang into the
trail. Shefford took time to get his weapons and the light pack he always
carried, and then rode out after the trader.

The pace Withers set was the long, steady lope to which these Indian
mustangs had been trained all their lives. In an hour they reached the
mouth of the Sagi, and at sight of it it seemed to Shefford that the hard
half-year of suffering since he had been there had disappeared. Withers,
to Shefford’s regret, did not enter the Sagi. He turned off to the north
and took a wild trail into a split of the red wall, and wound in and out,
and climbed a crack so narrow that the light was obscured and the cliffs
could be reached from both sides of a horse.

Once up on the wild plateau, Shefford felt again in a different world from
the barren desert he had lately known. The desert had crucified him and
had left him to die or survive, according to his spirit and his strength.
If he had loved the glare, the endless level, the deceiving distance, the
shifting sand, it had certainly not been as he loved this softer, wilder,
more intimate upland. With the red peaks shining up into the blue, and the
fragrance of cedar and pinon, and the purple sage and flowers and grass
and splash of clear water over stones—with these there came back to
him something that he had lost and which had haunted him.

It seemed he had returned to this wild upland of color and canyon and
lofty crags and green valleys and silent places with a spirit gained from
victory over himself in the harsher and sterner desert below. And, strange
to him, he found his old self, the dreamer, the artist, the lover of
beauty, the searcher for he knew not what, come to meet him on the
fragrant wind.

He felt this, saw the old wildness with glad eyes, yet the greater part of
his mind was given over to the thought of the unfortunate women he
expected to see in Stonebridge.

Withers was harder to follow, to keep up with, than an Indian. For one
thing he was a steady and tireless rider, and for another there were times
when he had no mercy on a horse. Then an Indian always found easier steps
in a trail and shorter cuts. Withers put his mount to some bad slopes, and
Shefford had no choice but to follow. But they crossed the great broken
bench of upland without mishap, and came out upon a promontory of a
plateau from which Shefford saw a wide valley and the dark-green alfalfa
fields of Stonebridge.

Stonebridge lay in the center of a fertile valley surrounded by pink
cliffs. It must have been a very old town, certainly far older than Bluff
or Monticello, though smaller, and evidently it had been built to last.
There was one main street, very wide, that divided the town and was
crossed at right angles by a stream spanned by a small natural stone
bridge. A line of poplar-trees shaded each foot-path. The little log
cabins and stone houses and cottages were half hidden in foliage now
tinted with autumn colors. Toward the center of the town the houses and
stores and shops fronted upon the street and along one side of a green
square, or plaza. Here were situated several edifices, the most prominent
of which was a church built of wood, whitewashed, and remarkable,
according to Withers, for the fact that not a nail had been used in its
construction. Beyond the church was a large, low structure of stone, with
a split-shingle roof, and evidently this was the town hall.

Shefford saw, before he reached the square, that this day in Stonebridge
was one of singular action and excitement for a Mormon village. The town
was full of people and, judging from the horses hitched everywhere and the
big canvas-covered wagons, many of the people were visitors. A crowd
surrounded the hall—a dusty, booted, spurred, shirt-sleeved and
sombreroed assemblage that did not wear the hall-mark Shefford had come to
associate with Mormons. They were riders, cowboys, horse-wranglers, and
some of them Shefford had seen in Durango. Navajos and Piutes were
present, also, but they loitered in the background.

Withers drew Shefford off to the side where, under a tree, they hitched
their horses.

“Never saw Stonebridge full of a riffraff gang like this to-day,” said
Withers. “I’ll bet the Mormons are wild. There’s a tough outfit from
Durango. If they can get anything to drink—or if they’ve got it—Stonebridge
will see smoke to-day!… Come on. I’ll get in that hall.”

But before Withers reached the hall he started violently and pulled up
short, then, with apparent unconcern, turned to lay a hand upon Shefford.
The trader’s face had blanched and his eyes grew hard and shiny, like
flint. He gripped Shefford’s arm.

“Look! Over to your left!” he whispered. “See that gang of Indians there—by
the big wagon. See the short Indian with the chaps. He’s got a face big as
a ham, dark, fierce. That’s Shadd!… You ought to know him. Shadd and his
outfit here! How’s that for nerve? But he pulls a rein with the Mormons.”

Shefford’s keen eye took in a lounging group of ten or twelve Indians and
several white men. They did not present any great contrast to the other
groups except that they were isolated, appeared quiet and watchful, and
were all armed. A bunch of lean, racy mustangs, restive and spirited,
stood near by in charge of an Indian. Shefford had to take a second and
closer glance to distinguish the half-breed. At once he recognized in
Shadd the broad-faced squat Indian who had paid him a threatening visit
that night long ago in the mouth of the Sagi. A fire ran along Shefford’s
veins and seemed to concentrate in his breast. Shadd’s dark, piercing eyes
alighted upon Shefford and rested there. Then the half-breed spoke to one
of his white outlaws and pointed at Shefford. His action attracted the
attention of others in the gang, and for a moment Shefford and Withers
were treated to a keen-eyed stare.

The trader cursed low. “Maybe I wouldn’t like to mix it with that damned
breed,” he said. “But what chance have we with that gang? Besides, we’re
here on other and more important business. All the same, before I forget,
let me remind you that Shadd has had you spotted ever since you came out
here. A friendly Piute told me only lately. Shefford, did any Indian
between here and Flagstaff ever see that bunch of money you persist in
carrying?”

“Why, yes, I suppose so—’way back in Tuba, when I first came out,”
replied Shefford.

“Huh! Well, Shadd’s after that…. Come on now, let’s get inside the
hall.”

The crowd opened for the trader, who appeared to be known to everybody.

A huge man with a bushy beard blocked the way to a shut door.

“Hello, Meade!” said Withers. “Let us in.”

The man opened the door, permitted Withers and Shefford to enter, and then
closed it.

Shefford, coming out of the bright glare of sun into the hall, could not
see distinctly at first. His eyes blurred. He heard a subdued murmur of
many voices. Withers appeared to be affected with the same kind of
blindness, for he stood bewildered a moment. But he recovered sooner than
Shefford. Gradually the darkness shrouding many obscure forms lifted.
Withers drew him through a crowd of men and women to one side of the hall,
and squeezed along a wall to a railing where progress was stopped.

Then Shefford raised his head to look with bated breath and strange
curiosity.

The hall was large and had many windows. Men were in consultation upon a
platform. Women to the number of twenty sat close together upon benches.
Back of them stood another crowd. But the women on the benches held
Shefford’s gaze. They were the prisoners. They made a somber group. Some
were hooded, some veiled, all clad in dark garments except one on the
front bench, and she was dressed in white. She wore a long hood that
concealed her face. Shefford recognized the hood and then the slender
shape. She was Mary—she whom her jealous neighbors had named the
Sago Lily. At sight of her a sharp pain pierced Shefford’s breast. His
eyes were blurred when he forced them away from her, and it took a moment
for him to see clearly.

Withers was whispering to him or to some one near at hand, but Shefford
did not catch the meaning of what was said. He paid more attention;
however, Withers ceased speaking. Shefford gazed upon the crowd back of
him. The women were hooded and it was not possible to see what they looked
like. There were many stalwart, clean-cut, young Mormons of Joe Lake’s
type, and these men appeared troubled, even distressed and at a loss.
There was little about them resembling the stern, quiet, somber austerity
of the more matured men, and nothing at all of the strange, aloof, serene
impassiveness of the gray-bearded old patriarchs. These venerable men were
the Mormons of the old school, the sons of the pioneers, the ruthless
fanatics. Instinctively Shefford felt that it was in them that polygamy
was embodied; they were the husbands of the sealed wives. He conceived an
absorbing curiosity to learn if his instinct was correct; and hard upon
that followed a hot, hateful eagerness to see which one was the husband of
Mary.

“There’s Bishop Kane,” whispered Withers, nudging Shefford. “And there’s
Waggoner with him.”

Shefford saw the bishop, and then beside him a man of striking presence.

“Who’s Waggoner?” asked Shefford, as he looked.

“He owns more than any Mormon in southern Utah,” replied the trader. “He’s
the biggest man in Stonebridge, that’s sure. But I don’t know his relation
to the Church. They don’t call him elder or bishop. But I’ll bet he’s some
pumpkins. He never had any use for me or any Gentile. A close-fisted,
tight-lipped Mormon—a skinflint if I ever saw one! Just look him
over.”

Shefford had been looking, and considered it unlikely that he would ever
forget this individual called Waggoner. He seemed old, sixty at least, yet
at that only in the prime of a wonderful physical life. Unlike most of the
others, he wore his grizzled beard close-cropped, so close that it showed
the lean, wolfish line of his jaw. All his features were of striking
sharpness. His eyes, of a singularly brilliant blue, were yet cold and
pale. The brow had a serious, thoughtful cast; long furrows sloped down
the cheeks. It was a strange, secretive face, full of a power that
Shefford had not seen in another man’s, full of intelligence and thought
that had not been used as Shefford had known them used among men. The face
mystified him. It had so much more than the strange aloofness so
characteristic of his fellows.

“Waggoner had five wives and fifty-five children before the law went into
effect,” whispered Withers. “Nobody knows and nobody will ever know how
many he’s got now. That’s my private opinion.”

Somehow, after Withers told that, Shefford seemed to understand the
strange power in Waggoner’s face. Absolutely it was not the force, the
strength given to a man from his years of control of men. Shefford, long
schooled now in his fair-mindedness, fought down the feelings of other
years, and waited with patience. Who was he to judge Waggoner or any other
Mormon? But whenever his glance strayed back to the quiet, slender form in
white, when he realized again and again the appalling nature of this
court, his heart beat heavy and labored within his breast.

Then a bustle among the men upon the platform appeared to indicate that
proceedings were about to begin. Some men left the platform; several sat
down at a table upon which were books and papers, and others remained
standing. These last were all roughly garbed, in riding-boots and spurs,
and Shefford’s keen eye detected the bulge of hidden weapons. They looked
like deputy-marshals upon duty.

Somebody whispered that the judge’s name was Stone. The name fitted him.
He was not young, and looked a man suited to the prosecution of these
secret Mormons. He had a ponderous brow, a deep, cavernous eye that
emitted gleams but betrayed no color or expression. His mouth was the
saving human feature of his stony face.

Shefford took the man upon the judge’s right hand to be a lawyer, and the
one on his left an officer of court, perhaps a prosecuting attorney.
Presently this fellow pounded upon the table and stood up as if to address
a court-room. Certainly he silenced that hallful of people. Then he
perfunctorily and briefly stated that certain women had been arrested upon
suspicion of being sealed wives of Mormon polygamists, and were to be
herewith tried by a judge of the United States Court. Shefford felt how
the impressive words affected that silent hall of listeners, but he
gathered from the brief preliminaries that the trial could not be
otherwise than a crude, rapid investigation, and perhaps for that the more
sinister.

The first woman on the foremost bench was led forward by a deputy to a
vacant chair on the platform just in front of the judge’s table. She was
told to sit down, and showed no sign that she had heard. Then the judge
courteously asked her to take the chair. She refused. And Stone nodded his
head as if he had experienced that sort of thing before. He stroked his
chin wearily, and Shefford conceived an idea that he was a kind man, if he
was a relentless judge.

“Please remove your veil,” requested the prosecutor.

The woman did so, and proved to be young and handsome. Shefford had a
thrill as he recognized her. She was Ruth, who had been one of his
best-known acquaintances in the hidden village. She was pale, angry,
almost sullen, and her breast heaved. She had no shame, but she seemed to
be outraged. Her dark eyes, scornful and blazing, passed over the judge
and his assistants, and on to the crowd behind the railing. Shefford, keen
as a blade, with all his faculties absorbed, fancied he saw Ruth stiffen
and change slightly as her glance encountered some one in that crowd. Then
the prosecutor in deliberate and chosen words enjoined her to kiss the
Bible handed to her and swear to tell the truth. How strange for Shefford
to see her kiss the book which he had studied for so many years! Stranger
still to hear the low murmur from the listening audience as she took the
oath!

“What is your name?” asked Judge Stone, leaning back and fixing the
cavernous eyes upon her.

“Ruth Jones,” was the cool reply.

“How old are you?”

“Twenty.”

“Where were you born?” went on the judge. He allowed time for the clerk to
record her answers.

“Panguitch, Utah.”

“Were your parents Mormons?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a Mormon?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a married woman?”

“No.”

The answer was instant, cold, final. It seemed to the truth. Almost
Shefford believed she spoke truth. The judge stroked his chin and waited a
moment, and then hesitatingly he went on.

“Have you—any children?”

“No.” And the blazing eyes met the cavernous ones.

That about the children was true enough, Shefford thought, and he could
have testified to it.

“You live in the hidden village near this town?”

“Yes.”

“What is the name of this village?”

“It has none.”

“Did you ever hear of Fre-donia, another village far west of here?”

“Yes.”

“It is in Arizona, near the Utah line. There are few men there. Is it the
same kind of village as this one in which you live?”

“Yes.”

“What does Fre-donia mean? The name—has it any meaning?”

“It means free women.”

The judge maintained silence for a moment, turned to whisper to his
assistants, and presently, without glancing up, said to the woman:

“That will do.”

Ruth was led back to the bench, and the woman next to her brought forward.
This was a heavier person, with the figure and step of a matured woman.
Upon removing her bonnet she showed the plain face of a woman of forty,
and it was striking only in that strange, stony aloofness noted in the
older men. Here, Shefford thought, was the real Mormon, different in a way
he could not define from Ruth. This woman seated herself in the chair and
calmly faced her prosecutors. She manifested no emotion whatever. Shefford
remembered her and could not see any change in her deportment. This trial
appeared to be of little moment to her and she took the oath as if doing
so had been a habit all her life.

“What is your name?” asked Judge Stone, glancing up from a paper he held.

“Mary Danton.”

“Family or married name?”

“My husband’s name was Danton.”

“Was. Is he living?”

“No.”

“Where did you live when you were married to him?”

“In St. George, and later here in Stonebridge.”

“You were both Mormons?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have any children by him?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Are they living?”

“One of them is living.”

Judge Stone bent over his paper and then slowly raised his eyes to her
face.

“Are you married now?”

“No.”

Again the judge consulted his notes, and held a whispered colloquy with
the two men at his table.

“Mrs. Danton, when you were arrested there were five children found in
your home. To whom do they belong?”

“Me.”

“Are you their mother?”

“Yes.”

“Your husband Danton is the father of only one, the eldest, according to
your former statement. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“Who, then, is the father—or who are the fathers, of your other
children?”

“I do not know.”

She said it with the most stony-faced calmness, with utter disregard of
what significance her words had. A strong, mystic wall of cold flint
insulated her. Strangely it came to Shefford how impossible either to
doubt or believe her. Yet he did both! Judge Stone showed a little heat.

“You don’t know the father of one or all of these children?” he queried,
with sharp rising inflection of voice.

“I do not.”

“Madam, I beg to remind you that you are under oath.”

The woman did not reply.

“These children are nameless, then—illegitimate?”

“They are.”

“You swear you are not the sealed wife of some Mormon?”

“I swear.”

“How do you live—maintain yourself?”

“I work.”

“What at?”

“I weave, sew, bake, and work in my garden.”

“My men made note of your large and comfortable cabin, even luxurious,
considering this country. How is that?”

“My husband left me comfortable.”

Judge Stone shook a warning finger at the defendant.

“Suppose I were to sentence you to jail for perjury? For a year? Far from
your home and children! Would you speak—tell the truth?”

“I am telling the truth. I can’t speak what I don’t know…. Send me to
jail.”

Baffled, with despairing, angry impatience, Judge Stone waved the woman
away.

“That will do for her. Fetch the next one,” he said.

One after another he examined three more women, and arrived, by various
questions and answers different in tone and temper, at precisely the same
point as had been made in the case of Mrs. Danton. Thereupon the
proceedings rested a few moments while the judge consulted with his
assistants.

Shefford was grateful for this respite. He had been worked up to an
unusual degree of interest, and now, as the next Mormon woman to be
examined was she whom he had loved and loved still, he felt rise in him
emotion that threatened to make him conspicuous unless it could be hidden.
The answers of these Mormon women had been not altogether unexpected by
him, but once spoken in cold blood under oath, how tragic, how appallingly
significant of the shadow, the mystery, the yoke that bound them! He was
amazed, saddened. He felt bewildered. He needed to think out the meaning
of the falsehoods of women he knew to be good and noble. Surely religion,
instead of fear and loyalty, was the foundation and the strength of this
disgrace, this sacrifice. Absolutely, shame was not in these women, though
they swore to shameful facts. They had been coached to give these baffling
answers, every one of which seemed to brand them, not the brazen mothers
of illegitimate offspring, but faithful, unfortunate sealed wives. To
Shefford the truth was not in their words, but it sat upon their somber
brows.

Was it only his heightened imagination, or did the silence and the
suspense grow more intense when a deputy led that dark-hooded, white-clad,
slender woman to the defendant’s chair? She did not walk with the poise
that had been manifest in the other women, and she sank into the chair as
if she could no longer stand.

“Please remove your hood,” requested the prosecutor.

How well Shefford remembered the strong, shapely hands! He saw them
tremble at the knot of ribbon, and that tremor was communicated to him in
a sympathy which made his pulses beat. He held his breath while she
removed the hood. And then there was revealed, he thought, the loveliest
and the most tragic face that ever was seen in a court-room.

A low, whispering murmur that swelled like a wave ran through the hall.
And by it Shefford divined, as clearly as if the fact had been blazoned on
the walls, that Mary’s face had been unknown to these villagers. But the
name Sago Lily had not been unknown; Shefford heard it whispered on all
sides.

The murmuring subsided. The judge and his assistants stared at Mary. As
for Shefford, there was no need of his personal feeling to make the
situation dramatic. Not improbably Judge Stone had tried many Mormon
women. But manifestly this one was different. Unhooded, Mary appeared to
be only a young girl, and a court, confronted suddenly with her youth and
the suspicion attached to her, could not but have been shocked. Then her
beauty made her seem, in that somber company, indeed the white flower for
which she had been named. But, more likely, it was her agony that bound
the court into silence which grew painful. Perhaps the thought that
flashed into Shefford’s mind was telepathic; it seemed to him that every
watcher there realized that in this defendant the judge had a girl of
softer mold, of different spirit, and from her the bitter truth could be
wrung.

Mary faced the court and the crowd on that side of the platform. Unlike
the other women, she did not look at or seem to see any one behind the
railing. Shefford was absolutely sure there was not a man or a woman who
caught her glance. She gazed afar, with eyes strained, humid, fearful.

When the prosecutor swore her to the oath her lips were seen to move, but
no one heard her speak.

“What is your name?” asked the judge.

“Mary.” Her voice was low, with a slight tremor.

“What’s your other name?”

“I won’t tell.”

Her singular reply, the tones of her voice, her manner before the judge,
marked her with strange simplicity. It was evident that she was not
accustomed to questions.

“What were your parents’ names?”

“I won’t tell,” she replied, very low.

Judge Stone did not press the point. Perhaps he wanted to make the
examination as easy as possible for her or to wait till she showed more
composure.

“Were your parents Mormons?” he went on.

“No, sir.” She added the sir with a quaint respect, contrasting markedly
with the short replies of the women before her.

“Then you were not born a Mormon?”

“No, sir.”

“How old are you?”

“Seventeen or eighteen. I’m not sure.”

“You don’t know your exact age?”

“No.”

“Where were you born?”

“I won’t tell.”

“Was it in Utah?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How long have you lived in this state?”

“Always—except last year.”

“And that’s been over in the hidden village where you were arrested?”

“Yes.”

“But you often visited here—this town Stonebridge?”

“I never was here—till yesterday.”

Judge Stone regarded her as if his interest as a man was running counter
to his duty as an officer. Suddenly he leaned forward.

“Are you a Mormon NOW?” he queried, forcibly.

“No, sir,” she replied, and here her voice rose a little clearer.

It was an unexpected reply. Judge Stone stared at her. The low buzz ran
through the listening crowd. And as for Shefford, he was astounded. When
his wits flashed back and he weighed her words and saw in her face truth
as clear as light, he had the strangest sensation of joy. Almost it
flooded away the gloom and pain that attended this ordeal.

The judge bent his head to his assistants as if for counsel. All of them
were eager where formerly they had been weary. Shefford glanced around at
the dark and somber faces, and a slow wrath grew within him. Then he
caught a glimpse of Waggoner. The steel-blue, piercing intensity of the
Mormon’s gaze impressed him at a moment when all that older generation of
Mormons looked as hard and immutable as iron. Either Shefford was
over-excited and mistaken or the hour had become fraught with greater
suspense. The secret, the mystery, the power, the hate, the religion of a
strange people were thick and tangible in that hall. For Shefford the
feeling of the presence of Withers on his left was entirely different from
that of the Mormon on his other side. If there was not a shadow there,
then the sun did not shine so brightly as it had shone when he entered.
The air seemed clogged with nameless passion.

“I gather that you’ve lived mostly in the country—away from people?”
the judge began.

“Yes, sir,” replied the girl.

“Do you know anything about the government of the United States?”

“No, sir.”

He pondered again, evidently weighing his queries, leading up to the fatal
and inevitable question.

Still, his interest in this particular defendant had become visible.

“Have you any idea of the consequences of perjury?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you understand what perjury is?”

“It’s to lie.”

“Do you tell lies?”

“No, sir.”

“Have you ever told a single lie?”

“Not—yet,” she replied, almost whispering.

It was the answer of a child and affected the judge. He fussed with his
papers. Perhaps his task was not easy; certainly it was not pleasant. Then
he leaned forward again and fixed those deep, cavernous eyes upon the sad
face.

“Do you understand what a sealed wife is?”

“I’ve never been told.”

“But you know there are sealed wives in Utah?”

“Yes, sir; I’ve been told that.”

Judge Stone halted there, watching her. The hall was silent except for
faint rustlings and here and there deep breaths drawn guardedly. The vital
question hung like a sword over the white-faced girl. Perhaps she divined
its impending stroke, for she sat like a stone with dilating, appealing
eyes upon her executioner.

“Are you a sealed wife?” he flung at her.

She could not answer at once. She made effort, but the words would not
come. He flung the question again, sternly.

“No!” she cried.

And then there was silence. That poignant word quivered in Shefford’s
heart. He believed it was a lie. It seemed he would have known it if this
hour was the first in which he had ever seen the girl. He heard, he felt,
he sensed the fatal thing. The beautiful voice had lacked some quality
before present. And the thing wanting was something subtle, an essence, a
beautiful ring—the truth. What a hellish thing to make that pure
girl a liar—a perjurer! The heat deep within Shefford kindled to
fire.

“You are not married?” went on Judge Stone.

“No, sir,” she answered, faintly.

“Have you ever been married?”

“No, sir.”

“Do you expect ever to be married?”

“Oh! No, sir.”

She was ashen pale now, quivering all over, with her strong hands clasping
the black hood, and she could no longer meet the judge’s glance.

“Have you—any—any children?” the judge asked, haltingly. It
was a hard question to get out.

“No.”

Judge Stone leaned far over the table, and that his face was purple showed
Shefford he was a man. His big fist clenched.

“Girl, you’re not going to swear you, too, were visited—over there
by men… You’re not going to swear that?”

“Oh—no, sir!”

Judge Stone settled back in his chair, and while he wiped his moist face
that same foreboding murmur, almost a menace, moaned through the hall.

Shefford was sick in his soul and afraid of himself. He did not know this
spirit that flamed up in him. His helplessness was a most hateful fact.

“Come—confess you are a sealed wife,” called her interrogator.

She maintained silence, but shook her head.

Suddenly he seemed to leap forward.

“Unfortunate child! Confess.”

That forced her to lift her head and face him, yet still she did not
speak. It was the strength of despair. She could not endure much more.

“Who is your husband?” he thundered at her.

She rose wildly, terror-stricken. It was terror that dominated her, not of
the stern judge, for she took a faltering step toward him, lifting a
shaking hand, but of some one or of some thing far more terrible than any
punishment she could have received in the sentence of a court. Still she
was not proof against the judge’s will. She had weakened, and the terror
must have been because of that weakening.

“Who is the Mormon who visits you?” he thundered, relentlessly.

“I—never—knew—his—name.

“But you’d know his face. I’ll arrest every Mormon in this country and
bring him before you. You’d know his face?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t. I COULDN’T TELL!… I—NEVER—SAW HIS
FACE—IN THE LIGHT!”

The tragic beauty of her, the certainty of some monstrous crime to youth
and innocence, the presence of an agony and terror that unfathomably
seemed not to be for herself—these transfixed the court and the
audience, and held them silenced, till she reached out blindly and then
sank in a heap to the floor.

XI. AFTER THE TRIAL

Shefford might have leaped over the railing but for Withers’s restraining
hand, and when there appeared to be some sign of kindness in those other
women for the unconscious girl Shefford squeezed through the crowd and got
out of the hall.

The gang outside that had been denied admittance pressed upon Shefford,
with jest and curious query, and a good nature that jarred upon him. He
was far from gentle as he jostled off the first importuning fellows; the
others, gaping at him, opened a lane for him to pass through.

Then there was a hand laid on his shoulder that he did not shake off. Nas
Ta Bega loomed dark and tall beside him. Neither the trader nor Joe Lake
nor any white man Shefford had met influenced him as this Navajo.

“Nas Ta Bega! you here, too. I guess the whole country is here. We waited
at Kayenta. What kept you so long?”

The Indian, always slow to answer, did not open his lips till he drew
Shefford apart from the noisy crowd.

“Bi Nai, there is sorrow in the hogan of Hosteen Doetin,” he said.

“Glen Naspa!” exclaimed Shefford.

“My sister is gone from the home of her brother. She went away alone in
the summer.”

“Blue canyon! She went to the missionary. Nas Ta Bega, I thought I saw her
there. But I wasn’t sure. I didn’t want to make sure. I was afraid it
might be true.”

“A brave who loved my sister trailed her there.”

“Nas Ta Bega, will you—will we go find her, take her home?”

“No. She will come home some day.”

What bitter sadness and wisdom in his words!

“But, my friend, that damned missionary—” began Shefford,
passionately. The Indian had met him at a bad hour.

“Willetts is here. I saw him go in there,” interrupted Nas Ta Bega, and he
pointed to the hall.

“Here! He gets around a good deal,” declared Shefford. “Nas Ta Bega, what
are you going to do to him?”

The Indian held his peace and there was no telling from his inscrutable
face what might be in his mind. He was dark, impassive. He seemed a wise
and bitter Indian, beyond any savagery of his tribe, and the suffering
Shefford divined was deep.

“He’d better keep out of my sight,” muttered Shefford, more to himself
than to his companion.

“The half-breed is here,” said Nas Ta Bega.

“Shadd? Yes, we saw him. There! He’s still with his gang. Nas Ta Bega,
what are they up to?”

“They will steal what they can.”

“Withers says Shadd is friendly with the Mormons.”

“Yes, and with the missionary, too.”

“With Willetts?”

“I saw them talk together—strong talk.”

“Strange. But maybe it’s not so strange. Shadd is known well in Monticello
and Bluff. He spends money there. They are afraid of him, but he’s welcome
just the same. Perhaps everybody knows him. It’d be like him to ride into
Kayenta. But, Nas Ta Bega, I’ve got to look out for him, because Withers
says he’s after me.”

“Bi Nai wears a scar that is proof,” said the Indian.

“Then it must be he found out long ago I had a little money.”

“It might be. But, Bi Nai, the half-breed has a strange step on your
trail.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Shefford.

“Nas Ta Bega cannot tell what he does not know,” replied the Navajo. “Let
that be. We shall know some day. Bi Nai, there is sorrow to tell that is
not the Indian’s…. Sorrow for my brother!”

Shefford lifted his eyes to the Indian’s, and if he did not see sadness
there he was much deceived.

“Bi Nai, long ago you told a story to the trader. Nas Ta Bega sat before
the fire that night. You did not know he could understand your language.
He listened. And he learned what brought you to the country of the Indian.
That night he made you his brother…. All his lonely rides into the
canyon have been to find the little golden-haired child, the lost girl—Fay
Larkin…. Bi Nai, I have found the girl you wanted for your sweetheart.”

Shefford was bereft of speech. He could not see steadily, and the last
solemn words of the Indian seemed far away.

“Bi Nai, I have found Fay Larkin,” repeated Nas Ta Bega.

“Fay Larkin!” gasped Shefford, shaking his head. “But—she’s dead.”

“It would be less sorrow for Bi Nai if she were dead.”

Shefford clutched at the Indian. There was something terrible to be
revealed. Like an aspen-leaf in the wind he shook all over. He divined the
revelation—divined the coming blow—but that was as far as his
mind got.

“She’s in there,” said the Indian, pointing toward hall.

“Fay Larkin?” whispered Shefford.

“Yes, Bi Nai.”

“My God! HOW do you know? Oh, I could have seen. I’ve been blind. … Tell
me, Indian. Which one?”

“Fay Larkin is the Sago Lily.”

. . . . . . . . . .

Shefford strode away into a secluded corner of the Square, where in the
shade and quiet of the trees he suffered a storm of heart and mind. During
that short or long time—he had no idea how long—the Indian
remained with him. He never lost the feeling of Nas Ta Bega close beside
him. When the period of acute pain left him and some order began to
replace the tumult in his mind he felt in Nas Ta Bega the same quality—silence
or strength or help—that he had learned to feel in the deep canyon
and the lofty crags. He realized then that the Indian was indeed a
brother. And Shefford needed him. What he had to fight was more fatal than
suffering and love—it was hate rising out of the unsuspected dark
gulf of his heart—the instinct to kill—the murder in his soul.
Only now did he come to understand Jane Withersteen’s tragic story and the
passion of Venters and what had made Lassiter a gun-man. The desert had
transformed Shefford. The elements had entered into his muscle and bone,
into the very fiber of his heart. Sun, wind, sand, cold, storm, space,
stone, the poison cactus, the racking toil, the terrible loneliness—the
iron of the desert man, the cruelty of the desert savage, the wildness of
the mustang, the ferocity of hawk and wolf, the bitter struggle of every
surviving thing—these were as if they had been melted and merged
together and now made a dark and passionate stream that was his throbbing
blood. He realized what he had become and gloried in it, yet there,
looking on with grave and earnest eyes, was his old self, the man of
reason, of intellect, of culture, who had been a good man despite the
failure and shame of his life. And he gave heed to the voice of warning,
of conscience. Not by revengefully seeking the Mormon who had ruined Fay
Larkin and blindly dealing a wild justice could he help this unfortunate
girl. This fierce, newborn strength and passion must be tempered by
reason, lest he become merely elemental, a man answering wholly to
primitive impulses. In the darkness of that hour he mined deep into his
heart, understood himself, trembled at the thing he faced, and won his
victory. He would go forth from that hour a man. He might fight, and
perhaps there was death in the balance, but hate would never overthrow
him.

Then when he looked at future action he felt a strange, unalterable
purpose to save Fay Larkin. She was very young—seventeen or
eighteen, she had said—and there could be, there must be some
happiness before her. It had been his dream to chase a rainbow—it
had been his determination to find her in the lost Surprise Valley. Well,
he had found her. It never occurred to him to ask Nas Ta Bega how he had
discovered that the Sago Lily was Fay Larkin. The wonder was, Shefford
thought, that he had so long been blind himself. How simply everything
worked out now! Every thought, every recollection of her was proof. Her
strange beauty like that of the sweet and rare lily, her low voice that
showed the habit of silence, her shapely hands with the clasp strong as a
man’s, her lithe form, her swift step, her wonderful agility upon the
smooth, steep trails, and the wildness of her upon the heights, and the
haunting, brooding shadow of her eyes when she gazed across the canyon—all
these fitted so harmoniously the conception of a child lost in a beautiful
Surprise Valley and growing up in its wildness and silence, tutored by the
sad love of broken Jane and Lassiter. Yes, to save her had been Shefford’s
dream, and he had loved that dream. He had loved the dream and he had
loved the child. The secret of her hiding-place as revealed by the story
told him and his slow growth from dream to action—these had
strangely given Fay Larkin to him. Then had come the bitter knowledge that
she was dead. In the light of this subsequent revelation how easy to
account for his loving Mary, too. Never would she be Mary again to him!
Fay Larkin and the Sago Lily were one and the same. She was here, near
him, and he was powerless for the present to help her or to reveal
himself. She was held back there in that gloomy hall among those somber
Mormons, alien to the women, bound in some fatal way to one of the men,
and now, by reason of her weakness in the trial, surely to be hated.
Thinking of her past and her present, of the future, and that secret
Mormon whose face she had never seen, Shefford felt a sinking of his
heart, a terrible cold pang in his breast, a fainting of his spirit. She
had sworn she was no sealed wife. But had she not lied? So, then, how
utterly powerless he was!

But here to save him, to uplift him, came that strange mystic insight
which had been the gift of the desert to him. She was not dead. He had
found her. What mattered obstacles, even that implacable creed to which
she had been sacrificed, in the face of this blessed and overwhelming
truth? It was as mighty as the love suddenly dawning upon him. A strong
and terrible and deathly sweet wind seemed to fill his soul with the love
of her. It was her fate that had drawn him; and now it was her agony, her
innocence, her beauty, that bound him for all time. Patience and cunning
and toil, passion and blood, the unquenchable spirit of a man to save—these
were nothing to give—life itself were little, could he but free her.

Patience and cunning! His sharpening mind cut these out as his greatest
assets for the present. And his thoughts flashed like light through his
brain…. Judge Stone and his court would fail to convict any Mormon in
Stonebridge, just the same as they had failed in the northern towns. They
would go away, and Stonebridge would fall to the slow, sleepy tenor of its
former way. The hidden village must become known to all men, honest and
outlawed, in that country, but this fact would hardly make any quick
change in the plans of the Mormons. They did not soon change. They would
send the sealed wives back to the canyon and, after the excitement had
died down, visit them as usual. Nothing, perhaps, would ever change these
old Mormons but death.

Shefford resolved to remain in Stonebridge and ingratiate himself deeper
into the regard of the Mormons. He would find work there, if the sealed
wives were not returned to the hidden village. In case the women went back
to the valley Shefford meant to resume his old duty of driving Withers’s
pack-trains. Wanting that opportunity, he would find some other work, some
excuse to take him there. In due time he would reveal to Fay Larkin that
he knew her. How the thought thrilled him! She might deny, might persist
in her fear, might fight to keep her secret. But he would learn it—hear
her story—hear what had become of Jane Withersteen and Lassiter—and
if they were alive, which now he believed he would find them—and he
would take them and Fay out of the country.

The duty, the great task, held a grim fascination for him. He had a
foreboding of the cost; he had a dark realization of the force he meant to
oppose. There were duty here and pity and unselfish love, but these alone
did not actuate Shefford. Mystically fate seemed again to come like a
gleam and bid him follow.

When Shefford and Nas Ta Bega returned to the town hall the trial had been
ended, the hall was closed, and only a few Indians and cowboys remained in
the square, and they were about to depart. On the street, however, and the
paths and in the doorways of stores were knots of people, talking
earnestly. Shefford walked up and down, hoping to meet Withers or Joe
Lake. Nas Ta Bega said he would take the horses to water and feed and then
return.

There were indications that Stonebridge might experience some of the
excitement and perhaps violence common to towns like Monticello and
Durango. There was only one saloon in Stonebridge, and it was full of
roystering cowboys and horse-wranglers. Shefford saw the bunch of
mustangs, in charge of the same Indian, that belonged to Shadd and his
gang. The men were inside, drinking. Next door was a tavern called
Hopewell House, a stone structure of some pretensions. There were Indians
lounging outside. Shefford entered through a wide door and found himself
in a large bare room, boarded like a loft, with no ceiling except the
roof. The place was full of men and noise. Here he encountered Joe Lake
talking to Bishop Kane and other Mormons. Shefford got a friendly greeting
from the bishop, and then was well received by the strangers, to whom Joe
introduced him.

“Have you seen Withers?” asked Shefford.

“Reckon he’s around somewhere,” replied Joe. “Better hang up here, for
he’ll drop in sooner or later.”

“When are you going back to Kayenta?” went on Shefford.

“Hard to say. We’ll have to call off our hunt. Nas Ta Bega is here, too.”

“Yes, I’ve been with him.”

The older Mormons drew aside, and then Joe mentioned the fact that he was
half starved. Shefford went with him into another clapboard room, which
was evidently a dining-room. There were half a dozen men at the long
table. The seat at the end was a box, and scarcely large enough or safe
enough for Joe and Shefford, but they risked it.

“Saw you in the hall,” said Joe. “Hell—wasn’t it?”

“Joe, I never knew how much I dared say to you, so I don’t talk much. But,
it was hell,” replied Shefford.

“You needn’t be so scared of me,” spoke up Joe, testily.

That was the first time Shefford had heard the Mormon speak that way.

“I’m not scared, Joe. But I like you—respect you. I can’t say so
much of—of your people.”

“Did you stick out the whole mix?” asked Joe.

“No. I had enough when—when they got through with Mary.” Shefford
spoke low and dropped his head. He heard the Mormon grind his teeth. There
was silence for a little space while neither man looked at the other.

“Reckon the judge was pretty decent,” presently said Joe.

“Yes, I thought so. He might have—” But Shefford did not finish that
sentence. “How’d the thing end?”

“It ended all right.”

“Was there no conviction—no sentence?” Shefford felt a curious
eagerness.

“Naw,” he snorted. “That court might have saved its breath.”

“I suppose. Well, Joe, between you and me, as old friends now, that trial
established one fact, even if it couldn’t be proved…. Those women are
sealed wives.”

Joe had no reply for that. He looked gloomy, and there was a stern line in
his lips. To-day he seemed more like a Mormon.

“Judge Stone knew that as well as I knew,” went on Shefford. “Any man of
penetration could have seen it. What an ordeal that was for good women to
go through! I know they’re good. And there they were swearing to—”

“Didn’t it make me sick?” interrupted Joe in a kind of growl. “Reckon it
made Judge Stone sick, too. After Mary went under he conducted that trial
like a man cuttin’ out steers at a round-up. He wanted to get it over. He
never forced any question…. Bad job to ride down Stonebridge way! It’s
out of creation. There’s only six men in the party, with a poor lot of
horses. Really, government officers or not, they’re not safe. And they’ve
taken a hunch.”

“Have they left already?” inquired Shefford.

“Were packed an hour ago. I didn’t see them go, but somebody said they
went. Took the trail for Bluff, which sure is the only trail they could
take, unless they wanted to go to Colorado by way of Kayenta. That might
have been the safest trail.”

“Joe, what might happen to them?” asked Shefford, quietly, with eyes on
the Mormon.

“Aw, you know that rough trail. Bad on horses. Weathered slopes—slipping
ledges—a rock might fall on you any time. Then Shadd’s here with his
gang. And bad Piutes.”

“What became of the women?” Shefford asked, ‘presently.

“They’re around among friends.”

“Where are their children?”

“Left over there with the old women. Couldn’t be fetched over. But there
are some pretty young babies in that bunch—need their mothers.”

“I should—think so,” replied Shefford, constrainedly. “When will
their mothers get back to them?”

“To-night, maybe, if this mob of cow-punchers and wranglers get out of
town…. It’s a bad mix, Shefford, here’s a hunch on that. These fellows
will get full of whisky. And trouble might come if they—approach the
women.”

“You mean they might get drunk enough to take the oaths of those poor
women—take the meaning literally—pretend to believe the women
what they swore they were?”

“Reckon you’ve got the hunch,” replied Joe, gloomily.

“My God! man, that would be horrible!” exclaimed Shefford.

“Horrible or not, it’s liable to happen. The women can be kept here yet
awhile. Reckon there won’t be any trouble here. It’ll be over there in the
valley. Shefford, getting the women over there safe is a job that’s been
put to me. I’ve got a bunch of fellows already. Can I count on you? I’m
glad to say you’re well thought of. Bishop Kane liked you, and what he
says goes.”

“Yes, Joe, you can count on me,” replied Shefford.

They finished their meal then and repaired to the big office-room of the
house. Several groups of men were there and loud talk was going on
outside. Shefford saw Withers talking to Bishop Kane and two other
Mormons, both strangers to Shefford. The trader appeared to be speaking
with unwonted force, emphasizing his words with energetic movements of his
hands.

“Reckon something’s up,” whispered Joe, hoarsely. “It’s been in the air
all day.”

Withers must have been watching for Shefford.

“Here’s Shefford now,” he said to the trio of Mormons, as Joe and Shefford
reached the group. “I want you to hear him speak for himself.”

“What’s the matter?” asked Shefford.

“Give me a hunch and I’ll put in my say-so,” said Joe Lake.

“Shefford, it’s the matter of a good name more than a job,” replied the
trader. “A little while back I told the bishop I meant to put you on the
pack job over to the valley—same as when you first came to me. Well,
the bishop was pleased and said he might put something in your way. Just
now I ran in here to find you—not wanted. When I kicked I got the
straight hunch. Willetts has said things about you. One of them—the
one that sticks in my craw—was that you’d do anything, even pretend
to be inclined toward Mormonism, just to be among those Mormon women over
there. Willetts is your enemy. And he’s worse than I thought. Now I want
you to tell Bishop Kane why this missionary is bitter toward you.”

“Gentlemen, I knocked him down,” replied Shefford, simply.

“What for?” inquired the bishop, in surprise and curiosity.

Shefford related the incident which had occurred at Red Lake and that now
seemed again to come forward fatefully.

“You insinuate he had evil intent toward the Indian girl?” queried Kane.

“I insinuate nothing. I merely state what led to my acting as I did.”

“Principles of religion, sir?”

“No. A man’s principles.”

Withers interposed in his blunt way, “Bishop, did you ever see Glen
Naspa?”

“No.”

“She’s the prettiest Navajo in the country. Willetts was after her, that’s
all.”

“My dear man, I can’t believe that of a Christian missionary. We’ve known
Willetts for years. He’s a man of influence. He has money back of him.
He’s doing a good work. You hint of a love relation.”

“No, I don’t hint,” replied Withers, impatiently. “I know. It’s not the
first time I’ve known a missionary to do this sort of thing. Nor is it the
first time for Willetts. Bishop Kane, I live among the Indians. I see a
lot I never speak of. My work is to trade with the Indians, that’s all.
But I’ll not have Willetts or any other damned hypocrite run down my
friend here. John Shefford is the finest young man that ever came to me in
the desert. And he’s got to be put right before you all or I’ll not set
foot in Stonebridge again…. Willetts was after Glen Naspa. Shefford
punched him. And later threw him out of the old Indian’s hogan up on the
mountain. That explains Willetts’s enmity. He was after the girl.”

“What’s more, gentlemen, he GOT her,” added Shefford. “Glen Naspa has not
been home for six months. I saw her at Blue canyon…. I would like to
face this Willetts before you all.”

“Easy enough,” replied Withers, with a grim chuckle. “He’s just outside.”

The trader went out; Joe Lake followed at his heels and the three Mormons
were next; Shefford brought up the rear and lingered in the door while his
eye swept the crowd of men and Indians. His feeling was in direct contrast
to his movements. He felt the throbbing of fierce anger. But it seemed a
face came between him and his passion—a sweet and tragic face that
would have had power to check him in a vastly more critical moment than
this. And in an instant he had himself in hand, and, strangely, suddenly
felt the strength that had come to him.

Willetts stood in earnest colloquy with a short, squat Indian—the
half-breed Shadd. They leaned against a hitching-rail. Other Indians were
there, and outlaws. It was a mixed group, rough and hard-looking.

“Hey, Willetts!” called the trader, and his loud, ringing voice, not
pleasant, stilled the movement and sound.

When Willetts turned, Shefford was half-way across the wide walk. The
missionary not only saw him, but also Nas Ta Bega, who was striding
forward. Joe Lake was ahead of the trader, the Mormons followed with
decision, and they all confronted Willetts. He turned pale. Shadd had
cautiously moved along the rail, nearer to his gang, and then they, with
the others of the curious crowd, drew closer.

“Willetts, here’s Shefford. Now say it to his face!” declared the trader.
He was angry and evidently wanted the fact known, as well as the
situation.

Willetts had paled, but he showed boldness. For an instant Shefford
studied the smooth face, with its sloping lines, the dark, wine-colored
eyes.

“Willetts, I understand you’ve maligned me to Bishop Kane and others,”
began Shefford, curtly.

“I called you an atheist,” returned the missionary, harshly.

“Yes, and more than that. And I told these men WHY you vented your spite
on me.”

Willetts uttered a half-laugh, an uneasy, contemptuous expression of scorn
and repudiation.

“The charges of such a man as you are can’t hurt me,” he said.

The man did not show fear so much as disgust at the meeting. He seemed to
be absorbed in thought, yet no serious consideration of the situation made
itself manifest. Shefford felt puzzled. Perhaps there was no fire to
strike from this man. The desert had certainly not made him flint. He had
not toiled or suffered or fought.

“But I can hurt you,” thundered Shefford, with startling
suddenness. “Here! Look at this Indian! Do you know him? Glen Naspa’s
brother. Look at him. Let us see you face him while I accuse you…. You
made love to Glen Naspa—took her from her home!”

“Harping infidel!” replied Willetts, hoarsely. “So that’s your game. Well,
Glen Naspa came to my school of her own accord and she will say so.”

“Why will she? Because you blinded the simple Indian girl…. Willetts,
I’ll waste little more time on you.”

And swift and light as a panther Shefford leaped upon the man and,
fastening powerful hands round the thick neck, bore him to his knees and
bent back his head over the rail. There was a convulsive struggle, a hard
flinging of arms, a straining wrestle, and then Willetts was in a dreadful
position. Shefford held him in iron grasp.

“You damned, white-livered hypocrite—I’m liable to kill you!” cried
Shefford. “I watched you and Glen Naspa that day up on the mountain. I saw
you embrace her. I saw that she loved you. Tell THAT, you liar! That’ll be
enough.”

The face of the missionary turned purple as Shefford forced his head back
over the rail.

“I’ll kill you, man,” repeated Shefford, piercingly. “Do you want to go to
your God unprepared? Say you made love to Glen Naspa—tell that you
persuaded her to leave her home. Quick!”

Willetts raised a shaking hand and then Shefford relaxed the paralyzing
grip and let his head come forward. The half-strangled man gasped out a
few incoherent words that his livid, guilty face made unnecessary.

Shefford gave him a shove and he fell into the dust at the feet of the
Navajo.

“Gentlemen, I leave him to Nas Ta Bega,” said Shefford, with a strange
change from passion to calmness.

Late that night, when the roystering visitors had gone or were deep in
drunken slumber, a melancholy and strange procession filed out of
Stonebridge. Joe Lake and his armed comrades were escorting the Mormon
women back to the hidden valley. They were mounted on burros and mustangs,
and in all that dark and somber line there was only one figure which shone
white under the pale moon.

At the starting, until that white-clad figure had appeared, Shefford’s
heart had seemed to be in his throat; and thereafter its beat was muffled
and painful in his breast. Yet there was some sad sweetness in the
knowledge that he could see her now, be near her, watch over her.

By and by the overcast clouds drifted and the moon shone bright. The night
was still; the great dark mountain loomed to the stars; the numberless
waves of rounded rock that must be crossed and circled lay deep in shadow.
There was only a steady pattering of light hoofs.

Shefford’s place was near the end of the line, and he kept well back,
riding close to one woman and then another. No word was spoken. These
sealed wives rode where their mounts were led or driven, as blind in their
hoods as veiled Arab women in palanquins. And their heads drooped wearily
and their shoulders bent, as if under a burden. It took an hour of steady
riding to reach the ascent to the plateau, and here, with the beginning of
rough and smooth and shadowed trail, the work of the escort began. The
line lengthened out and each man kept to the several women assigned to
him. Shefford had three, and one of them was the girl he loved. She rode
as if the world and time and life were naught to her. As soon as he dared
trust his voice and his control he meant to let her know the man whom
perhaps she had not forgotten was there with her, a friend. Six months! It
had been a lifetime to him. Surely eternity to her! Had she forgotten? He
felt like a coward who had basely deserted her. Oh—had he only
known!

She rode a burro that was slow, continually blocking the passage for those
behind, and eventually it became lame. Thus the other women forged ahead.
Shefford dismounted and stopped her burro. It was a moment before she
noted the halt, and twice in that time Shefford tried to speak and failed.
What poignant pain, regret, love made his utterance fail!

“Ride my horse,” he finally said, and his voice was not like his own.

Obediently and wearily she dismounted from the burro and got up on
Nack-yal. The stirrups were long for her and he had to change them. His
fingers were all thumbs as he fumbled with the buckles.

Suddenly he became aware that there had been a subtle change in her. He
knew it without looking up and he seemed to be unable to go on with his
task. If his life had depended upon keeping his head lowered he could not
have done it. The listlessness of her drooping form was no longer
manifest. The peak of the dark hood pointed toward him. He knew then that
she was gazing at him.

Never so long as he lived would that moment be forgotten! They were alone.
The others had gotten so far ahead that no sound came back. The stillness
was so deep it could be felt. The moon shone with white, cold radiance and
the shining slopes of smooth stone waved away, crossed by shadows of
pinyons.

Then she leaned a little toward him. One swift hand flew up to tear the
black hood back so that she could see. In its place flashed her white
face. And her eyes were like the night.

“YOU!” she whispered.

His blood came leaping to sting neck and cheek and temple. What dared he
interpret from that single word? Could any other word have meant so much?

“No—one—else,” he replied, unsteadily.

Her white hand flashed again to him, and he met it with his own. He felt
himself standing cold and motionless in the moonlight. He saw her,
wonderful, with the deep, shadowy eyes, and a silver sheen on her hair.
And as he looked she released her hand and lifted it, with the other, to
her hood. He saw the shiny hair darken and disappear—and then the
lovely face with its sad eyes and tragic lips.

He drew Nack-yal’s bridle forward, and led him up the moonlit trail.

XII. THE REVELATION

The following afternoon cowboys and horse-wranglers, keen-eyed as Indians
for tracks and trails, began to arrive in the quiet valley to which the
Mormon women had been returned.

Under every cedar clump there were hobbled horses, packs, and rolled
bedding in tarpaulins. Shefford and Joe Lake had pitched camp in the old
site near the spring. The other men of Joe’s escort went to the homes of
the women; and that afternoon, as the curious visitors began to arrive,
these homes became barred and dark and quiet, as if they had been closed
and deserted for the winter. Not a woman showed herself.

Shefford and Joe, by reason of the location of their camp and their
alertness, met all the new-comers. The ride from Stonebridge was a long
and hard one, calculated to wear off the effects of the whisky imbibed by
the adventure-seekers. This fact alone saved the situation. Nevertheless,
Joe expected trouble. Most of the visitors were decent, good-natured
fellows, merely curious, and simple enough to believe that this really was
what the Mormons had claimed—a village of free women. But there were
those among them who were coarse, evil-minded, and dangerous.

By supper-time there were two dozen or more of these men in the valley,
camped along the west wall. Fires were lighted, smoke curled up over the
cedars, gay songs disturbed the usual serenity of the place. Later in the
early twilight the curious visitors, by twos and threes, walked about the
village, peering at the dark cabins and jesting among themselves. Joe had
informed Shefford that all the women had been put in a limited number of
cabins, so that they could be protected. So far as Shefford saw or heard
there was no unpleasant incident in the village; however, as the
sauntering visitors returned toward their camps they loitered at the
spring, and here developments threatened.

In spite of the fact that the majority of these cowboys and their comrades
were decent-minded and beginning to see the real relation of things, they
were not disposed to be civil to Shefford. They were certainly not
Mormons. And his position, apparently as a Gentile, among these Mormons
was one open to criticism. They might have been jealous, too; at any rate,
remarks were passed in his hearing, meant for his ears, that made it
exceedingly trying for him not to resent. Moreover, Joe Lake’s increasing
impatience rendered the situation more difficult. Shefford welcomed the
arrival of Nas Ta Bega. The Indian listened to the loud talk of several
loungers round the camp-fire; and thereafter he was like Shefford’s
shadow, silent, somber, watchful.

Nevertheless, it did not happen to be one of the friendly and sarcastic
cowboys that precipitated the crisis. A horse-wrangler named Hurley, a man
of bad repute, as much outlaw as anything, took up the bantering.

“Say, Shefford, what in the hell’s your job here, anyway?” he queried as
he kicked a cedar branch into the camp-fire. The brightening blaze showed
him swarthy, unshaven, a large-featured, ugly man.

“I’ve been doing odd jobs for Withers,” replied Shefford. “Expect to drive
pack-trains in here for a while.”

“You must stand strong with these Mormons. Must be a Mormon yerself?”

“No,” replied Shefford, briefly.

“Wal, I’m stuck on your job. Do you need a packer? I can throw a
diamond-hitch better ‘n any feller in this country.”

“I don’t need help.”

“Mebbe you’ll take me over to see the ladies,” he went on, with a coarse
laugh.

Shefford did not show that he had heard. Hurley waited, leering as looked
from the keen listeners to Shefford.

“Want to have them all yerself, eh?” he jeered.

Shefford struck him—sent him tumbling heavily, like a log. Hurley,
cursing as he half rose, jerked his gun out. Nas Ta Bega, swift as light,
kicked the gun out of his hand. And Joe Lake picked it up.

Deliberately the Mormon cocked the weapon and stood over Hurley.

“Get up!” he ordered, and Shefford heard the ruthless Mormon in him then.

Hurley rose slowly. Then Joe prodded him in the middle with the cocked
gun. Shefford startled, expected the gun to go off. So did the others,
especially Hurley, who shrank in panic from the dark Mormon.

“Rustle!” said Joe, and gave the man a harder prod. Assuredly the gun did
not have a hair-trigger.

“Joe, mebbe it’s loaded!” protested one of the cowboys.

Hurley shrank back, and turned to hurry away, with Joe close after him.
They disappeared in the darkness. A constrained silence was maintained
around the camp-fire for a while. Presently some of the men walked off and
others began to converse. Everybody heard the sound of hoofs passing down
the trail. The patter ceased, and in a few moments Lake returned. He still
carried Hurley’s gun.

The crowd dispersed then. There was no indication of further trouble.
However, Shefford and Joe and Nas Ta Bega divided the night in watches, so
that some one would be wide awake.

Early next morning there was an exodus from the village of the better
element among the visitors. “No fun hangin’ round hyar,” one of them
expressed it, and as good-naturedly as they had come they rode away. Six
or seven of the desperado class remained behind, bent on mischief; and
they were reinforced by more arrivals from Stonebridge. They avoided the
camp by the spring, and when Shefford and Lake attempted to go to them
they gave them a wide berth. This caused Joe to assert that they were up
to some dirty work. All morning they lounged around under the cedars,
keeping out of sight, and evidently the reinforcement from Stonebridge had
brought liquor. When they gathered together at their camp, half drunk, all
noisy, some wanting to swagger off into the village and others trying to
hold them back, Joe Lake said, grimly, that somebody was going to get
shot. Indeed, Shefford saw that there was every likelihood of bloodshed.

“Reckon we’d better take to one of the cabins,” said Joe.

Thereupon the three repaired to the nearest cabin, and, entering, kept
watch from the windows. During a couple of hours, however, they did not
see or hear anything of the ruffians. Then came a shot from over in the
village, a single yell, and, after that, a scattering volley. The silence
and suspense which followed were finally broken by hoof-beats. Nas Ta Bega
called Joe and Shefford to the window he had been stationed at. From here
they saw the unwelcome visitors ride down the trail, to disappear in the
cedars toward the outlet of the valley. Joe, who had numbered them, said
that all but one of them had gone.

“Reckon he got it,” added Joe.

So indeed it turned out; one of the men, a well-known rustler named
Harker, had been killed, by whom no one seemed to know. He had brazenly
tried to force his way into one of the houses, and the act had cost him
his life. Naturally Shefford, never free from his civilized habit of
thought, remarked apprehensively that he hoped this affair would not cause
the poor women to be arrested again and haled before some rude court.

“Law!” grunted Joe. “There ain’t any. The nearest sheriff is in Durango.
That’s Colorado. And he’d give us a medal for killing Harker. It was a
good job, for it’ll teach these rowdies a lesson.”

Next day the old order of life was resumed in the village. And the arrival
of a heavily laden pack-train, under the guidance of Withers, attested to
the fact that the Mormons meant not only to continue to live in the
valley, but also to build and plant and enlarge. This was good news to
Shefford. At least the village could be made less lonely. And there was
plenty of work to give him excuse for staying there. Furthermore, Withers
brought a message form Bishop Kane to the effect that the young man was
offered a place as teacher in the school, in co-operation with the Mormon
teachers. Shefford experienced no twinge of conscience when he accepted.

It was the fourth evening after the never-to-be-forgotten moonlight ride
to the valley that Shefford passed under the dark pinon-trees on his way
to Fay Larkin’s cottage. He paused in the gloom and memory beset him. The
six months were annihilated, and it was the night he had fled. But now all
was silent. He seemed to be trying to drag himself back. A beginning must
be made. Only how to meet her—what to say—what to conceal!

He tapped on the door and she came out. After all, it was a meeting vastly
different from what his feeling made him imagine it might have been. She
was nervous, frightened, as were all the other women, for that matter. She
was alone in the cottage. He made haste to reassure her about the
improbability of any further trouble such as had befallen the last week.
As he had always done on those former visits to her, he talked rapidly,
using all his wit, and here his emotion made him eloquent; he avoided
personalities, except to tell about his prospects of work in the village,
and he sought above all to lead her mind from thought of herself and her
condition. Before he left her he had the gladness of knowing he had
succeeded.

When he said good night he felt the strange falsity of his position. He
did not expect to be able to keep up the deception for long. That roused
him, and half the night he lay awake, thinking. Next day he was the life
of the work and study and play in that village. Kindness and good-will did
not need inspiration, but it was keen, deep passion that made him a
plotter for influence and friendship. Was there a woman in the village
whom he might trust, in case he needed one? And his instinct guided him to
her whom he had liked well—Ruth. Ruth Jones she had called herself
at the trial, and when Shefford used the name she laughed mockingly. Ruth
was not very religious, and sometimes she was bitter and hard. She wanted
life, and here she was a prisoner in a lonely valley. She welcomed
Shefford’s visits. He imagined that she had slightly changed, and whether
it was the added six months with its trouble and pain or a growing revolt
he could not tell. After a time he divined that the inevitable
retrogression had set in: she had not enough faith to uphold the burden
she had accepted, nor the courage to cast it off. She was ready to love
him. That did not frighten Shefford, and if she did love him he was not so
sure it would not be an anchor for her. He saw her danger, and then he
became what he had never really been in all the days of his ministry—the
real helper. Unselfishly, for her sake, he found power to influence her;
and selfishly, for the sake of Fay Larkin, he began slowly to win her to a
possible need.

The days passed swiftly. Mormons came and went, though in the open day, as
laborers; new cabins went up, and a store, and other improvements. Some
part of every evening Shefford spent with Fay, and these visits were no
longer unknown to the village. Women gossiped, in a friendly way about
Shefford, but with jealous tongues about the girl. Joe Lake told Shefford
the run of the village talk. Anything concerning the Sago Lily the droll
Mormon took to heart. He had been hard hit, and admitted it. Sometimes he
went with Shefford to call upon her, but he talked little and never
remained long. Shefford had anticipated antagonism on the part of Joe;
however, he did not find it.

Shefford really lived through the busy day for that hour with Fay in the
twilight. And every evening seemed the same. He would find her in the
dark, alone, silent, brooding, hopeless. Her mood did not puzzle him, but
how to keep from plunging her deeper into despair baffled him. He
exhausted all his powers trying to do for her what he had been able to do
for Ruth. Yet he failed. Something had blunted her. The shadow of that
baneful trial hovered over her, and he came to sense a strange terror in
her. It was mostly always present. Was she thinking of Jane Withersteen
and Lassiter, left dead or imprisoned in the valley from which she had
been brought so mysteriously? Shefford wearied his brain revolving these
questions. The fate of her friends, and the cross she bore—of these
was tragedy born, but the terror—that Shefford divined came of
waiting for the visit of the Mormon whose face she had never seen.
Shefford prayed that he might never meet this man. Finally he grew
desperate. When he first arrived at the girl’s home she would speak, she
showed gladness, relief, and then straightway she dropped back into the
shadow of her gloom. When he got up to go then there was a wistfulness, an
unspoken need, an unconscious reliance, in her reluctant good night.

Then the hour came when he reached his limit. He must begin his
revelation.

“You never ask me anything—let alone about myself,” he said.

“I’d like to hear,” she replied, timidly.

“Do I strike you as an unhappy man?”

“No, indeed.”

“Well, how DO I strike you?”

This was an entirely new tack he had veered to.

“Very good and kind to us women,” she said.

“I don’t know about that. If I am so, it doesn’t bring me happiness. …
Do you remember what I told you once, about my being a preacher—disgrace,
ruin, and all that—and my rainbow-chasing dream out here after a—a
lost girl?”

“I—remember all—you said,” she replied, very low.

“Listen.” His voice was a little husky, but behind it there seemed a tide
of resistless utterance. “Loss of faith and name did not send me to this
wilderness. But I had love—love for that lost girl, Fay Larkin. I
dreamed about her till I loved her. I dreamed that I would find her—my
treasure—at the foot of a rainbow. Dreams!… When you told me she
was dead I accepted that. There was truth in your voice. I respected your
reticence. But something died in me then. I lost myself, the best of me,
the good that might have uplifted me. I went away, down upon the barren
desert, and there I rode and slept and grew into another and a harder man.
Yet, strange to say, I never forgot her, though my dreams were done. As I
toiled and suffered and changed I loved her—if not her, the thought
of her—more and more. Now I have come back to these walled valleys—to
the smell of pinon, to the flowers in the nooks, to the wind on the
heights, to the silence and loneliness and beauty. And here the dreams
come back and SHE is WITH me always. Her spirit is all that keeps me kind
and good, as you say I am. But I suffer, I long for her alive. If I love
her dead, how could I love her living! Always I torture myself with the
vain dream that—that she MIGHT not be dead. I have never been
anything but a dreamer. And here I go about my work by day and lie awake
at night with that lost girl in my mind…. I love her. Does that seem
strange to you? But it would not if you understood. Think. I had lost
faith, hope. I set myself a great work—to find Fay Larkin. And by
the fire and the iron and the blood that I felt it would cost to save her
some faith must come to me again…. My work is undone—I’ve never
saved her. But listen, how strange it is to feel—now—as I let
myself go—that just the loving her and the living here in the
wildness that holds her somewhere have brought me hope again. Some faith
must come, too. It was through her that I met this Indian, Nas Ta Bega. He
has saved my life—taught me much. What would I ever have learned of
the naked and vast earth, of the sublimity of the wild uplands, of the
storm and night and sun, if I had not followed a gleam she inspired? In my
hunt for a lost girl perhaps I wandered into a place where I shall find a
God and my salvation. Do you marvel that I love Fay Larkin—that she
is not dead to me? Do you marvel that I love her, when I KNOW, were she
alive, chained in a canyon, or bound, or lost in any way, my destiny would
lead me to her, and she should be saved?”

Shefford ended, overcome with emotion. In the dusk he could not see the
girl’s face, but the white form that had drooped so listlessly seemed now
charged by some vitalizing current. He knew he had spoken irrationally;
still he held it no dishonor to have told her he loved her as one dead. If
she took that love to the secret heart of living Fay Larkin, then perhaps
a spirit might light in her darkened soul. He had no thought yet that Fay
Larkin might ever belong to him. He divined a crime—he had seen her
agony. And this avowal of his was only one step toward her deliverance.

Softly she rose, retreating into the shadow.

“Forgive me if I—I disturb you, distress you,” he said. “I wanted to
tell you. She was—somehow known to you. I am not happy. And are YOU
happy?… Let her memory be a bond between us…. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Faintly as the faintest whisper breathed her reply, and, though it came
from a child forced into womanhood, it whispered of girlhood not dead, of
sweet incredulity, of amazed tumult, of a wondering, frantic desire to run
and hide, of the bewilderment incident to a first hint of love.

Shefford walked away into the darkness. The whisper filled his soul. Had a
word of love ever been spoken to that girl? Never—not the love which
had been on his lips. Fay Larkin’s lonely life spoke clearly in her
whisper.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Next morning as the sun gilded the looming peaks and shafts of gold
slanted into the valley she came swiftly down the path to the spring.

Shefford paused in his task of chopping wood. Joe Lake, on his knees, with
his big hands in a pan of dough, lifted his head to stare. She had left
off the somber black hood, and, although that made a vast difference in
her, still it was not enough to account for what struck both men.

“Good morning,” she called, brightly.

They both answered, but not spontaneously. She stopped at the spring and
with one sweep of her strong arm filled the bucket and lifted it. Then she
started back down the path and, pausing opposite the camp, set the bucket
down.

“Joe, do you still pride yourself on your sour dough?” she asked.

“Reckon I do,” replied Joe, with a grin.

“I’ve heard your boasts, but never tasted your bread,” she went on.

“I’ll ask you to eat with us some day.”

“Don’t forget,” she replied.

And then shyly she looked at Shefford. She was like the fresh dawn, and
the gold of the sun shone on her head.

“Have you chopped all that wood—so early?” she asked.

“Sure,” replied Shefford, laughing. “I have to get up early to keep Joe
from doing all the camp chores.”

She smiled, and then to Shefford she seemed to gleam, to be radiant.

“It’d be a lovely morning to climb—’way high.”

“Why—yes—it would,” replied Shefford, awkwardly. “I wish I
didn’t have my work.”

“Joe, will YOU climb with me some day?”

“I should smile I will,” declared Joe.

“But I can run right up the walls.”

“I reckon. Mary, it wouldn’t surprise me to see you fly.”

“Do you mean I’m like a canyon swallow or an angel?”

Then, as Joe stared speechlessly, she said good-by and, taking up the
bucket, went on with her swift, graceful step.

“She’s perked up,” said the Mormon, staring after her. “Never heard her
say more ‘n yes or no till now.”

“She did seem—bright,” replied Shefford.

He was stunned. What had happened to her? To-day this girl had not been
Mary, the sealed wife, or the Sago Lily, alien among Mormon women. Then it
flashed upon him—she was Fay Larkin. She who had regarded herself as
dead had come back to life. In one short night what had transformed her—what
had taken place in her heart? Shefford dared not accept, nor allow
lodgment in his mind, a thrilling idea that he had made her forget her
misery.

“Shefford, did you ever see her like that?” asked Joe.

“Never.”

“Haven’t you—something to do with it?”

“Maybe I have. I—I hope so.”

“Reckon you’ve seen how she’s faded—since the trial?”

“No,” replied Shefford, swiftly. “But I’ve not seen her face in daylight
since then.”

“Well, take my hunch,” said Joe, soberly. “She’s begun to fade like the
canyon lily when it’s broken. And she’s going to die unless—”

“Why man!” ejaculated Shefford. “Didn’t you see—”

“Sure I see,” interrupted the Mormon. “I see a lot you don’t. She’s so
white you can look through her. She’s grown thin, all in a week. She
doesn’t eat. Oh, I know, because I’ve made it my business to find out.
It’s no news to the women. But they’d like to see her die. And she will
die unless—”

“My God!” exclaimed Shefford, huskily. “I never noticed—I never
thought…. Joe, hasn’t she any friends?”

“Sure. You and Ruth—and me. Maybe Nas Ta Bega, too. He watches her a
good deal.”

“We can do so little, when she needs so much.”

“Nobody can help her, unless it’s you,” went on the Mormon. “That’s plain
talk. She seemed different this morning. Why, she was alive—she
talked—she smiled…. Shefford, if you cheer her up I’ll go to hell
for you!”

The big Mormon, on his knees, with his hands in a pan of dough, and his
shirt all covered with flour, presented an incongruous figure of a man
actuated by pathos and passion. Yet the contrast made his emotion all the
simpler and stronger. Shefford grew closer to Joe in that moment.

“Why do you think I can cheer her, help her?” queried Shefford.

“I don’t know. But she’s different with you. It’s not that you’re a
Gentile, though, for all the women are crazy about you. You talk to her.
You have power over her, Shefford. I feel that. She’s only a kid.”

“Who is she, Joe? Where did she come from?” asked Shefford, very low, with
his eyes cast down.

“I don’t know. I can’t find out. Nobody knows. It’s a mystery—to all
the younger Mormons, anyway.”

Shefford burned to ask questions about the Mormon whose sealed wife the
girl was, but he respected Joe too much to take advantage of him in a
poignant moment like this. Besides, it was only jealousy that made him
burn to know the Mormon’s identity, and jealousy had become a creeping,
insidious, growing fire. He would be wise not to add fuel to it. He
rejected many things before he thought of one that he could voice to his
friend.

“Joe, it’s only her body that belongs to—to…. Her soul is lost to—”

“John Shefford, let that go. My mind’s tired. I’ve been taught so and so,
and I’m not bright…. But, after all, men are much alike. The thing with
you and me is this—we don’t want to see HER grave!”

Love spoke there. The Mormon had seized upon the single elemental point
that concerned him and his friend in their relation to this unfortunate
girl. His simple, powerful statement united them; it gave the lie to his
hint of denseness; it stripped the truth naked. It was such a wonderful
thought-provoking statement that Shefford needed time to ponder how deep
the Mormon was. To what limit would he go? Did he mean that here, between
two men who loved the same girl, class, duty, honor, creed were nothing if
they stood in the way of her deliverance and her life?

“Joe Lake, you Mormons are impossible,” said Shefford, deliberately. “You
don’t want to see her grave. So long as she lives—remains on the
earth—white and gold like the flower you call her, that’s enough for
you. It’s her body you think of. And that’s the great and horrible error
in your religion…. But death of the soul is infinitely worse than death
of the body. I have been thinking of her soul…. So here we stand, you
and I. You to save her life—I to save her soul! What will you do?”

“Why, John, I’d turn Gentile,” he said, with terrible softness. It was a
softness that scorned Shefford for asking, and likewise it flung defiance
at his creed and into the face of hell.

Shefford felt the sting and the exaltation.

“And I’d be a Mormon,” he said.

“All right. We understand each other. Reckon there won’t be any call for
such extremes. I haven’t an idea what you mean—what can be done. But
I say, go slow, so we won’t all find graves. First cheer her up somehow.
Make her want to live. But go slow, John. AND DON’T BE WITH HER LATE!”

. . . . . . . . . . .

That night Shefford found her waiting for him in the moonlight—a
girl who was as transparent as crystal-clear water, who had left off the
somber gloom with the black hood, who tremulously embraced happiness
without knowing it, who was one moment timid and wild like a
half-frightened fawn, and the next, exquisitely half-conscious of what it
meant to be thought dead, but to be alive, to be awakening, wondering,
palpitating, and to be loved.

Shefford lived the hour as a dream and went back to the quiet darkness
under the cedars to lie wide-eyed, trying to recall all that she had said.
For she had talked as if utterance had long been dammed behind a barrier
of silence.

There followed other hours like that one, indescribable hours, so sweet
they stung, and in which, keeping pace with his love, was the nobler
stride of a spirit that more every day lightened her burden.

The thing he had to do, sooner or later, was to tell her he knew she was
Fay Larkin, not dead, but alive, and that, not love nor religion, but
sacrifice, nailed her down to her martyrdom. Many and many a time he had
tried to force himself to tell her, only to fail. He hated to risk ending
this sweet, strange, thoughtless, girlish mood of hers. It might not be
soon won back—perhaps never. How could he tell what chains bound
her? And so as he vacillated between Joe’s cautious advice to go slow and
his own pity the days and weeks slipped by.

One haunting fear kept him sleepless half the nights and sick even in his
dreams, and it was that the Mormon whose sealed wife she was might come,
surely would come, some night. Shefford could bear it. But what would that
visit do to Fay Larkin? Shefford instinctively feared the awakening in the
girl of womanhood, of deeper insight, of a spiritual realization of what
she was, of a physical dawn.

He might have spared himself needless torture. One day Joe Lake eyed him
with penetrating glance.

“Reckon you don’t have to sleep right on that Stonebridge trail,” said the
Mormon, significantly.

Shefford felt the blood burn his neck and face. He had pulled his
tarpaulin closer to the trail, and his motive was as an open page to the
keen Mormon.

“Why?” asked Shefford.

“There won’t be any Mormons riding in here soon—by night—to
visit the women,” replied Joe, bluntly. “Haven’t you figured there might
be government spies watching the trails?”

“No, I haven’t.”

“Well, take a hunch, then,” added the Mormon, gruffly, and Shefford
divined, as well as if he had been told, that warning word had gone to
Stonebridge. Gone despite the fact that Nas Ta Bega had reported every
trail free of watchers! There was no sign of any spies, cowboys, outlaws,
or Indians in the vicinity of the valley. A passionate gratitude to the
Mormon overcame Shefford; and the unreasonableness of it, the nature of
it, perturbed him greatly. But, something hammered into his brain, if he
loved one of these sealed wives, how could he help being jealous?

The result of Joe’s hint was that Shefford put off the hour of revelation,
lived in his dream, helped the girl grow farther and farther away from her
trouble, until that inevitable hour arrived when he was driven by
accumulated emotion as much as the exigency of the case.

He had not often walked with her beyond the dark shade of the pinyons
round the cottage, but this night, when he knew he must tell her, he led
her away down the path, through the cedar grove to the west end of the
valley where it was wild and lonely and sad and silent.

The moon was full and the great peaks were crowned as with snow. A coyote
uttered his cutting cry. There were a few melancholy notes from a night
bird of the stone walls. The air was clear and cold, with a tang of frost
in it. Shefford gazed about him at the vast, uplifted, insulating walls,
and that feeling of his which was more than a sense told him how walls
like these and the silence and shadow and mystery had been nearly all of
Fay Larkin’s life. He felt them all in her.

He stopped out in the open, near the line where dark shadow of the wall
met the silver moonlight on the grass, and here, by a huge flat stone
where he had come often alone and sometimes with Ruth, he faced Fay Larkin
in the spirit to tell her gently that he knew her, and sternly to force
her secret from her.

“Am I your friend?” he began.

“Ah!—my only friend,” she said.

“Do you trust me, believe I mean well by you, want to help you?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Well, then, let me speak of you. You know one topic we’ve never touched
upon. You!”

She was silent, and looked wonderingly, a little fearfully, at him, as if
vague, disturbing thoughts were entering the fringe of her mind.

“Our friendship is a strange one, is it not?” he went on.

“How do I know? I never had any other friendship. What do you mean by
strange?”

“Well, I’m a young man. You’re a—a married woman. We are together a
good deal—and like to be.”

“Why is that strange?” she asked.

Suddenly Shefford realized that there was nothing strange in what was
natural. A remnant of sophistication clung to him and that had spoken. He
needed to speak to her in a way which in her simplicity she would
understand.

“Never mind strange. Say that I am interested in you, and, as you’re not
happy, I want to help you. And say that your neighbors are curious and
oppose my idea. Why do they?”

“They’re jealous and want you themselves,” she replied, with sweet
directness. “They’ve said things I don’t understand. But I felt they—they
hated in me what would be all right in themselves.”

Here to simplicity she added truth and wisdom, as an Indian might have
expressed them. But shame was unknown to her, and she had as yet only
vague perceptions of love and passion. Shefford began to realize the
quickness of her mind, that she was indeed awakening.

“They are jealous—were jealous before I ever came here. That’s only
human nature. I was trying to get to a point. Your neighbors are curious.
They oppose me. They hate you. It’s all bound up in the—the fact of
your difference from them, your youth, beauty, that you’re not a Mormon,
that you nearly betrayed their secret at the trial in Stonebridge.”

“Please—please don’t—speak of that!” she faltered.

“But I must,” he replied, swiftly. “That trial was a torture to you. It
revealed so much to me…. I know you are a sealed wife. I know there has
been a crime. I know you’ve sacrificed yourself. I know that love and
religion have nothing to do with—what you are…. Now, is not all
that true?”

“I must not tell,” she whispered.

“But I shall MAKE you tell,” he replied, and his voice rang.

“Oh no, you cannot,” she said.

“I can—with just one word!”

Her eyes were great, starry, shadowy gulfs, dark in the white beauty of
her face. She was calm now. She had strength. She invited him to speak the
word, and the wistful, tremulous quiver of her lips was for his earnest
thought of her.

“Wait—a—little,” said Shefford, unsteadily. “I’ll come to that
presently. Tell me this—have you ever thought of being free?”

“Free!” she echoed, and there was singular depth and richness in her
voice. That was the first spark of fire he had struck from her. “Long ago,
the minute I was unwatched, I’d have leaped from a wall had I dared. Oh, I
wasn’t afraid. I’d love to die that way. But I never dared.”

“Why?” queried Shefford, piercingly.

She was silent then.

“Suppose I offered to give you freedom that meant life?”

“I—couldn’t—take it.”

“Why?”

“Oh, my friend, don’t ask me any more.”

“I know, I can see—you want to tell me—you need to tell.”

“But I daren’t.”

“Won’t you trust me?”

“I do—I do.”

“Then tell me.”

“No—no—oh no!”

The moment had come. How sad, tragic, yet glorious for him! It would be
like a magic touch upon this lovely, cold, white ghost of Fay Larkin,
transforming her into a living, breathing girl. He held his love as a
thing aloof, and, as such, intangible because of the living death she
believed she lived, it had no warmth and intimacy for them. What might it
not become with a lightning flash of revelation? He dreaded, yet he was
driven to speak. He waited, swallowing hard, fighting the tumultuous storm
of emotion, and his eyes dimmed.

“What did I come to this country for?” he asked, suddenly, in ringing,
powerful voice.

“To find a girl,” she whispered.

“I’ve found her!”

She began to shake. He saw a white hand go to her breast.

“Where is Surprise Valley?… How were you taken from Jane Withersteen and
Lassiter?… I know they’re alive. But where?”

She seemed to turn to stone.

“Fay!—FAY LARKIN!… I KNOW YOU!” he cried, brokenly.

She slipped off the stone to her knees, swayed forward blindly with her
hands reaching out, her head falling back to let the moon fall full upon
the beautiful, snow-white, tragically convulsed face.

XIII. THE STORY OF SURPRISE VALLEY

“… Oh, I remember so well! Even now I dream of it sometimes. I hear the
roll and crash of falling rock—like thunder…. We rode and rode.
Then the horses fell. Uncle Jim took me in his arms and started up the
cliff. Mother Jane climbed close after us. They kept looking back. Down
there in the gray valley came the Mormons. I see the first one now. He
rode a white horse. That was Tull. Oh, I remember so well! And I was five
or six years old.

“We climbed up and up and into dark canyon and wound in and out. Then
there was the narrow white trail, straight up, with the little cut steps
and the great, red, ruined walls. I looked down over Uncle Jim’s shoulder.
I saw Mother Jane dragging herself up. Uncle Jim’s blood spotted the
trail. He reached a flat place at the top and fell with me. Mother Jane
crawled up to us.

“Then she cried out and pointed. Tull was ‘way below, climbing the trail.
His men came behind him. Uncle Jim went to a great, tall rock and leaned
against it. There was a bloody hole in his hand. He pushed the rock. It
rolled down, banging the loose walls. They crashed and crashed—then
all was terrible thunder and red smoke. I couldn’t hear—I couldn’t
see.

“Uncle Jim carried me down and down out of the dark and dust into a
beautiful valley all red and gold, with a wonderful arch of stone over the
entrance.

“I don’t remember well what happened then for what seemed a long, long
time. I can feel how the place looked, but not so clear as it is now in my
dreams. I seem to see myself with the dogs, and with Mother Jane, learning
my letters, marking with red stone on the walls.

“But I remember now how I felt when I first understood we were shut in for
ever. Shut in Surprise Valley where Venters had lived so long. I was glad.
The Mormons would never get me. I was seven or eight years old then. From
that time all is clear in my mind.

“Venters had left supplies and tools and grain and cattle and burros, so
we had a good start to begin life there. He had killed off the wildcats
and kept the coyotes out, so the rabbits and quail multiplied till there
were thousands of them. We raised corn and fruit, and stored what we
didn’t use. Mother Jane taught me to read and write with the soft red
stone that marked well on the walls.

“The years passed. We kept track of time pretty well. Uncle Jim’s hair
turned white and Mother Jane grew gray. Every day was like the one before.
Mother Jane cried sometimes and Uncle Jim was sad because they could never
be able to get me out of the valley. It was long before they stopped
looking and listening for some one. Venters would come back, Uncle Jim
always said. But Mother Jane did not think so.

“I loved Surprise Valley. I wanted to stay there always. I remembered
Cottonwoods, how the children there hated me, and I didn’t want to go
back. The only unhappy times I ever had in the valley were when Ring and
Whitie, my dogs, grew old and died. I roamed the valley. I climbed to
every nook upon the mossy ledges. I learned to run up the steep cliffs. I
could almost stick on the straight walls. Mother Jane called me a wild
girl. We had put away the clothes we wore when we got there, to save them,
and we made clothes of skins. I always laughed when I thought of my little
dress—how I grew out of it. I think Uncle Jim and Mother Jane talked
less as the years went by. And after I’d learned all she could teach me we
didn’t talk much. I used to scream into the caves just to hear my voice,
and the echoes would frighten me.

“The older I grew the more I was alone. I was always running round the
valley. I would climb to a high place and sit there for hours, doing
nothing. I just watched and listened. I used to stay in the
cliff-dwellers’ caves and wonder about them. I loved to be out in the
wind. And my happiest time was in the summer storms with the thunder
echoes under the walls. At evening it was such a quiet place—after
the night bird’s cry, no sound. The quiet made me sad but I loved it. I
loved to watch the stars as I lay awake.

“So it was beautiful and happy for me there till—till…

“Two years or more ago there was a bad storm, and one of the great walls
caved. The walls were always weathering, slipping. Many and many a time
have I heard the rumble of an avalanche, but most of them were in other
canyon. This slide in the valley made it possible, Uncle Jim said, for men
to get down into the valley. But we could not climb out unless helped from
above. Uncle Jim never rested well after that. But it never worried me.

“One day, over a year ago, while I was across the valley, I heard strange
shouts, and then screams. I ran to our camp. I came upon men with ropes
and guns. Uncle Jim was tied, and a rope was round his neck. Mother Jane
was lying on the ground. I thought she was dead until I heard her moan. I
was not afraid. I screamed and flew at Uncle Jim to tear the ropes off
him. The men held me back. They called me a pretty cat. Then they talked
together, and some were for hanging Lassiter—that was the first time
I ever knew any name for him but Uncle Jim—and some were for leaving
him in the valley. Finally they decided to hang him. But Mother Jane
pleaded so and I screamed and fought so that they left off. Then they went
away and we saw them climb out of the valley.

“Uncle Jim said they were Mormons, and some among them had been born in
Cottonwoods. I was not told why they had such a terrible hate for him. He
said they would come back and kill him. Uncle Jim had no guns to fight
with.

“We watched and watched. In five days they did come back, with more men,
and some of them wore black masks. They came to our cave with ropes and
guns. One was tall. He had a cruel voice. The others ran to obey him. I
could see white hair and sharp eyes behind the mask. The men caught me and
brought me before him.

“He said Lassiter had killed many Mormons. He said Lassiter had killed his
father and should be hanged. But Lassiter would be let live and Mother
Jane could stay with him, both prisoners there in the valley, if I would
marry the Mormon. I must marry him, accept the Mormon faith, and bring up
my children as Mormons. If I refused they would hang Lassiter, leave the
heretic Jane Withersteen alone in the valley, and take me and break me to
their rule.

“I agreed. But Mother Jane absolutely forbade me to marry him. Then the
Mormons took me away. It nearly killed me to leave Uncle Jim and Mother
Jane. I was carried and lifted out of the valley, and rode a long way on a
horse. They brought me here, to the cabin where I live, and I have never
been away except that—that time—to—Stonebridge. Only
little by little did I learn my position. Bishop Kane was kind, but stern,
because I could not be quick to learn the faith.

“I am not a sealed wife. But they’re trying to make me one. The master
Mormon—he visited me often—at night—till lately. He
threatened me. He never told me a name—except Saint George. I don’t—know
him—except his voice. I never—saw his face—in the
light!”

. . . . . . . . . . .

Fay Larkin ended her story. Toward its close Shefford had grown
involuntarily restless, and when her last tragic whisper ceased all his
body seemed shaken with a terrible violence of his joy. He strode to and
fro in the dark shadow of the stone. The receding blood left him cold,
with a pricking, sickening sensation over his body, but there seemed to be
an overwhelming tide accumulating deep in his breast—a tide of
passion and pain. He dominated the passion, but the ache remained. And he
returned to the quiet figure on the stone.

“Fay Larkin!” he exclaimed, with a deep breath of relief that the secret
was disclosed. “So you’re not a wife!… You’re free! Thank Heaven! But I
felt it was sacrifice. I knew there had been a crime. For crime it is. You
child! You can’t understand what crime. Oh, almost I wish you and Jane and
Lassiter had never been found. But that’s wrong of me. One year of agony—that
shall not ruin your life. Fay, I will take you away.”

“Where?” she whispered.

“Away from this Mormon country—to the East,” he replied, and he
spoke of what he had known, of travel, of cities, of people, of happiness
possible for a young girl who had spent all her life hidden between the
narrow walls of a silent, lonely valley—he spoke swiftly and
eloquently till he lost his breath.

There was an instant of flashing wonder and joy on her white face, and
then the radiance paled, the glow died. Her soul was the darker for that
one strange, leaping glimpse of a glory not for such as she.

“I must stay here,” she said, shudderingly.

“Fay!—How strange to SAY Fay aloud to YOU!—Fay, do you know
the way to Surprise Valley?”

“I don’t know where it is, but I could go straight to it,” she replied.

“Take me there. Show me your beautiful valley. Let me see where you ran
and climbed and spent so many lonely years.”

“Ah, how I’d love to! But I dare not. And why should you want me to take
you? We can run and climb here.”

“I want to—I mean to save Jane Withersteen and Lassiter,” he
declared.

She uttered a little cry of pain. “Save them?”

“Yes, save them. Get them out of the valley, take them out of the country,
far away where they and YOU—”

“But I can’t go,” she wailed. “I’m afraid. I’m bound. It CAN’T be broken.
If I dared—if I tried to go they would catch me. They would hang
Uncle Jim and leave Mother Jane alone there to starve.”

“Fay, Lassiter and Jane both will starve—at least they will die
there if we do not save them. You have been terribly wronged. You’re a
slave. You’re not a wife.”

“They—said I’ll be burned in hell if I don’t marry him…. Mother
Jane never taught me about God. I don’t know. But HE—he said God was
there. I dare not break it.”

“Fay, you have been deceived by old men. Let them have their creed. But
YOU mustn’t accept it.”

“John, what is God to you?”

“Dear child, I—I am not sure of that myself,” he replied, huskily.
“When all this trouble is behind us, surely I can help you to understand
and you can help me. The fact that you are alive—that Lassiter and
Jane are alive—that I shall save you all—that lifts me up. I
tell you—Fay Larkin will be my salvation.”

“Your words trouble me. Oh, I shall be torn one way and another…. But,
John, I daren’t run away. I will not tell you where to find Lassiter and
Mother Jane.”

“I shall find them—I have the Indian. He found you for me. Nas Ta
Bega will find Surprise Valley.”

“Nas Ta Bega!… Oh, I remember. There was an Indian with the Mormons who
found us. But he was a Piute.”

“Nas Ta Bega never told me how he learned about you. That he learned was
enough. And, Fay, he will find Surprise Valley. He will save Uncle Jim and
Mother Jane.”

Fay’s hands clasped Shefford’s in strong, trembling pressure; the tears
streamed down her white cheeks; a tragic and eloquent joy convulsed her
face.

“Oh, my friend, save them! But I can’t go…. Let them keep me! Let him
kill me!”

“Him! Fay—he shall not harm you,” replied Shefford in passionate
earnestness.

She caught the hand he had struck out with.

“You talk—you look like Uncle Jim when he spoke of the Mormons,” she
said. “Then I used to be afraid of him. He was so different. John, you
must not do anything about me. Let me be. It’s too late. He—and his
men—they would hang you. And I couldn’t bear that. I’ve enough to
bear without losing my friend. Say you won’t watch and wait—for—for
him.”

Shefford had to promise her. Like an Indian she gave expression to
primitive feeling, for it certainly never occurred to her that, whatever
Shefford might do, he was not the kind of man to wait in hiding for an
enemy. Fay had faltered through her last speech and was now weak and
nervous and frightened. Shefford took her back to the cabin.

“Fay, don’t be distressed,” he said. “I won’t do anything right away. You
can trust me. I won’t be rash. I’ll consult you before I make a move. I
haven’t any idea what I could do, anyway…. You must bear up. Why, it
looks as if you’re sorry I found you.”

“Oh! I’m glad!” she whispered.

“Then if you’re glad you mustn’t break down this way again. Suppose some
of the women happened to run into us.”

“I won’t again. It’s only you—you surprised me so. I used to think
how I’d like you to know—I wasn’t really dead. But now—it’s
different. It hurts me here. Yet I’m glad—if my being alive makes
you—a little happier.”

Shefford felt that he had to go then. He could not trust himself any
further.

“Good night, Fay,” he said.

“Good night, John,” she whispered. “I promise—to be good to-morrow.”

She was crying softly when he left her. Twice he turned to see the dim,
white, slender form against the gloom of the cabin. Then he went on under
the pinyons, blindly down the path, with his heart as heavy as lead. That
night as he rolled in his blanket and stretched wearily he felt that he
would never be able to sleep. The wind in the cedars made him shiver. The
great stars seemed relentless, passionless, white eyes, mocking his little
destiny and his pain. The huge shadow of the mountain resembled the shadow
of the insurmountable barrier between Fay and him.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Her pitiful, childish promise to be good was in his mind when he went to
her home on the next night. He wondered how she would be, and he realized
a desperate need of self-control.

But that night Fay Larkin was a different girl. In the dark, before she
spoke, he felt a difference that afforded him surprise and relief. He
greeted her as usual. And then it seemed, though not at all clearly, that
he was listening to a girl, strangely and unconsciously glad to see him,
who spoke with deeper note in her voice, who talked where always she had
listened, whose sadness was there under an eagerness, a subdued gaiety as
new to her, as sweet as it was bewildering. And he responded with emotion,
so that the hour passed swiftly, and he found himself back in camp, in a
kind of dream, unable to remember much of what she had said, sure only of
this strange sweetness suddenly come to her.

Upon the following night, however, he discovered what had wrought this
singular change in Fay Larkin. She loved him and she did not know it. How
passionately sweet and sad and painful was that realization for Shefford!
The hour spent with her then was only a moment.

He walked under the stars that night and they shed a glorious light upon
him. He tried to think, to plan, but the sweetness of remembered word or
look made mental effort almost impossible. He got as far as the thought
that he would do well to drift, to wait till she learned she loved him,
and then, perhaps, she could be persuaded to let him take her and Lassiter
and Jane away together.

And from that night he went at his work and the part he played in the
village with a zeal and a cunning that left him free to seek Fay when he
chose.

Sometimes in the afternoon, always for a while in the evening, he was with
her. They climbed the walls, and sat upon a lonely height to look afar;
they walked under the stars, and the cedars, and the shadows of the great
cliffs. She had a beautiful mind. Listening to her, he imagined he saw
down into beautiful Surprise Valley with all its weird shadows, its
colored walls and painted caves, its golden shafts of morning light and
the red haze at sunset; and he felt the silence that must have been there,
and the singing of the wind in the cliffs, and the sweetness and fragrance
of the flowers, and the wildness of it all. Love had worked a marvelous
transformation in this girl who had lived her life in a canyon. The burden
upon her did not weigh heavily. She could not have an unhappy thought. She
spoke of the village, of her Mormon companions, of daily happenings, of
Stonebridge, of many things in a matter-of-fact way that showed how little
they occupied her mind. She even spoke of sealed wives in a kind of dreamy
abstraction. Something had possession of her, something as strong as the
nature which had developed her, and in its power she, in her simplicity,
was utterly unconscious, a watching and feeling girl. A strange, witching,
radiant beauty lurked in her smile. And Shefford heard her laugh in his
dreams.

The weeks slipped by. The black mountain took on a white cap of snow; in
the early mornings there was ice in the crevices on the heights and frost
in the valley. In the sheltered canyon where sunshine seemed to linger it
was warm and pleasant, so that winter did not kill the flowers.

Shefford waited so long for Fay’s awakening that he believed it would
never come, and, believing, had not the heart to force it upon her. Then
there was a growing fear with him. What would Fay Larkin do when she
awakened to the truth? Fay was indeed like that white and fragile lily
which bloomed in the silent, lonely canyon, but the same nature that had
created it had created her. Would she droop as the lily would in a furnace
blast? More than that, he feared a sudden flashing into life of strength,
power, passion, hate. She did not hate yet because she did not yet realize
love. She was utterly innocent of any wrong having been done her. More and
more he began to fear, and a foreboding grew upon him. He made up his mind
to broach the subject of Surprise Valley and of escaping with Lassiter and
Jane; still, every time he was with Fay the girl and her beauty and her
love were so wonderful that he put off the ordeal till the next night. As
time flew by he excused his vacillation on the score that winter was not a
good time to try to cross the desert. There was no grass for the mustangs,
except in well-known valleys, and these he must shun. Spring would soon
come. So the days passed, and he loved Fay more all the time, desperately
living out to its limit the sweetness of every moment with her, and paying
for his bliss in the increasing trouble that beset him when once away from
her charm.

. . . . . . . . . . .

One starry night, about ten o’clock, he went, as was his custom, to drink
at the spring. Upon his return to the cedars Nas Ta Bega, who slept under
the same tree with him, had arisen, with his blanket hanging half off his
shoulder.

“Listen,” said the Indian.

Shefford took one glance at the dark, somber face, with its inscrutable
eyes, now so strange and piercing, and then, with a kind of cold
excitement, he faced the way the Indian looked, and listened. But he heard
only the soft moan of the night wind in the cedars.

Nas Ta Bega kept the rigidity of his position for a moment, and then he
relaxed, and stood at ease. Shefford knew the Indian had made a certainty
of what must have been a doubtful sound. And Shefford leaned his ear to
the wind and strained his hearing.

Then the soft night breeze brought a faint patter—the slow trot of
horses on a hard trail. Some one was coming into the village at a late
hour. Shefford thought of Joe Lake. But Joe lay right behind him, asleep
in his blankets. It could not be Withers, for the trader was in Durango at
that time. Shefford thought of Willetts and Shadd.

“Who’s coming?” he asked low of the Indian.

Nas Ta Bega pointed down the trail without speaking.

Shefford peered through the white dim haze of starlight and presently he
made out moving figures. Horses, with riders—a string of them—one—two—three—four—five—and
he counted up to eleven. Eleven horsemen riding into the village! He was
amazed, and suddenly keenly anxious. This visit might be one of Shadd’s
raids.

“Shadd’s gang!” he whispered.

“No, Bi Nai,” replied Nas Ta Bega, and he drew Shefford farther into the
shade of the cedars. His voice, his action, the way he kept a hand on
Shefford’s shoulder, all this told much to the young man.

Mormons come on a night visit! Shefford realized it with a slight shock.
Then swift as a lightning flash he was rent by another shock—one
that brought cold moisture to his brow and to his heart a flame of hell.

He was shaking when he sank down to find the support of a log. Like a
shadow the Indian silently moved away. Shefford watched the eleven horses
pass the camp, go down the road, to disappear in the village. They
vanished, and the soft clip-clops of hoofs died away. There was nothing
left to prove he had not dreamed.

Nothing to prove it except this sudden terrible demoralization of his
physical and spiritual being! While he peered out into the valley, toward
the black patch of cedars and pinyons that hid the cabins, moments and
moments passed, and in them he was gripped with cold and fire.

Was the Mormon who had abducted Fay—the man with the cruel voice—was
he among those eleven horsemen? He might not have been. What a torturing
hope! But vain—vain, for inevitably he must be among them. He was
there in the cabin already. He had dismounted, tied his horse, had knocked
on her door. Did he need to knock? No, he would go in, he would call her
in that cruel voice, and then…

Shefford pulled a blanket from his bed and covered his cold and trembling
body. He had sunk down off the log, was leaning back upon it. The stars
were pale, far off, and the valley seemed unreal. He found himself
listening—listening with sick and terrible earnestness, trying to
hear against the thrum and beat of his heart, straining to catch a sound
in all that cold, star-blanched, silent valley. But he could hear no
sound. It was as if death held the valley in its perfect silence. How he
hated that silence! There ought to have been a million horrible, bellowing
demons making the night hideous. Did the stars serenely look down upon the
lonely cabins of these exiles? Was there no thunderbolt to drop down from
that dark and looming mountain upon the silent cabin where tragedy had
entered? In all the world, under the sea, in the abysmal caves, in the
vast spaces of the air, there was no such terrible silence as this. A
scream, a long cry, a moan—these were natural to a woman, and why
did not one of these sealed wives, why did not Fay Larkin, damn this
everlasting acquiescent silence? Perhaps she would fly out of her cabin,
come running along the path. Shefford peered into the bright patches of
starlight and into the shadows of the cedars. But he saw no moving form in
the open, no dim white shape against the gloom. And he heard no sound—not
even a whisper of wind in the branches overhead.

Nas Ta Bega returned to the shade of the cedars and, lying down on his
blankets, covered himself and went to sleep. The fact seemed to bring
bitter reality to Shefford. Nothing was going to happen. The valley was to
be the same this night as any other night. Shefford accepted the truth. He
experienced a kind of self-pity. The night he had thought so much about,
prepared for, and had forgotten had now arrived. Then he threw another
blanket round him, and, cold, dark, grim, he faced that lonely vigil,
meaning to sit there, wide-eyed, to endure and to wait.

Jealousy and pain, following his frenzy, abided with him long hours, and
when they passed he divined that selfishness passed with them. What he
suffered then was for Fay Larkin and for her sisters in misfortune. He
grew big enough to pity these fanatics. The fiery, racing tide of blood
that had made of him only an animal had cooled with thought of others.
Still he feared that stultifying thing which must have been hate. What a
tempest had raged within him! This blood of his, that had received a
stronger strain from his desert life, might in a single moment flood out
reason and intellect and make him a vengeful man. So in those starlit
hours that dragged interminably he looked deep into his heart and tried to
fortify himself against a dark and evil moment to come.

Midnight—and the valley seemed a tomb! Did he alone keep wakeful?
The sky was a darker blue, the stars burned a whiter fire, the peaks stood
looming and vast, tranquil sentinels of that valley, and the wind rose to
sigh, to breathe, to mourn through the cedars. It was a sad music. The
Indian lay prone, dark face to the stars. Joe Lake lay prone, sleeping as
quietly, with his dark face exposed to the starlight. The gentle movement
of the cedar branches changed the shape of the bright patches on the grass
where shadow and light met. The walls of the valley waved upward, dark
below and growing paler, to shine faintly at the rounded rims. And there
was a tiny, silvery tinkle of running water over stones.

Here was a little nook of the vast world. Here were tranquillity, beauty,
music, loneliness, life. Shefford wondered—did he alone keep
watchful? Did he feel that he could see dark, wide eyes peering into the
gloom? And it came to him after a time that he was not alone in his vigil,
nor was Fay Larkin alone in her agony. There was some one else in the
valley, a great and breathing and watchful spirit. It entered into
Shefford’s soul and he trembled. What had come to him? And he answered—only
added pain and new love, and a strange strength from the firmament and the
peaks and the silence and the shadows.

The bright belt with its three radiant stars sank behind the western wall
and there was a paler gloom upon the valley.

Then a few lights twinkled in the darkness that enveloped the cabins; a
woman’s laugh strangely broke the silence, profaning it, giving the lie to
that somber yoke which seemed to consist of the very shadows; the voices
of men were heard, and then the slow clip-clop of trotting horses on the
hard trail.

Shefford saw the Mormons file out into the paling starlight, ride down the
valley, and vanish in the gray gloom. He was aware that the Indian sat up
to watch the procession ride by, and that Joe turned over, as if
disturbed.

One by one the stars went out. The valley became a place of gray shadows.
In the east a light glowed. Shefford sat there, haggard and worn, watching
the coming of the dawn, the kindling of the light; and had the power been
his the dawn would never have broken and the rose and gold never have
tipped the lofty peaks.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Shefford attended to his camp chores as usual. Several times he was aware
of Joe’s close scrutiny, and finally, without looking at him, Shefford
told of the visit of the Mormons. A violent expulsion of breath was Joe’s
answer and it might have been a curse. Straightway Joe ceased his cheery
whistling and became as somber as the Indian. The camp was silent; the men
did not look at one another. While they sat at breakfast Shefford’s back
was turned toward the village—he had not looked in that direction
since dawn.

“Ugh!” suddenly exclaimed Nas Ta Bega.

Joe Lake muttered low and deep, and this time there was no mistake about
the nature of his speech. Shefford did not have the courage to turn to see
what had caused these exclamations. He knew since today had dawned that
there was calamity in the air.

“Shefford, I reckon if I know women there’s a little hell coming to you,”
said the Mormon, significantly.

Shefford wheeled as if a powerful force had turned him on a pivot. He saw
Fay Larkin. She seemed to be almost running. She was unhooded and her
bright hair streamed down. Her swift, lithe action was without its usual
grace. She looked wild, and she almost fell crossing the stepping-stones
of the brook.

Joe hurried to meet her, took hold of her arm and spoke, but she did not
seem to hear him. She drew him along with her, up the little bench under
the cedars straight toward Shefford. Her face held a white, mute agony, as
if in the hour of strife it had hardened into marble. But her eyes were
dark-purple fire—windows of an extraordinarily intense and vital
life. In one night the girl had become a woman. But the blight Shefford
had dreaded to see—the withering of the exquisite soul and spirit
and purity he had considered inevitable, just as inevitable as the death
of something similar in the flower she resembled, when it was broken and
defiled—nothing of this was manifest in her. Straight and swiftly
she came to him back in the shade of the cedars and took hold of his
hands.

“Last night—HE CAME!” she said.

“Yes—Fay—I—I know,” replied Shefford, haltingly.

He was tremblingly conscious of amaze at her—of something wonderful
in her. She did not heed Joe, who stepped aside a little; she did not see
Nas Ta Bega, who sat motionless on a log, apparently oblivious to her
presence.

“You knew he came?”

“Yes, Fay. I was awake when—they rode in. I watched them. I sat up
all night. I saw them ride away.”

“If you knew when he came why didn’t you run to me—to get to me
before he did?”

Her question was unanswerable. It had the force of a blow. It stunned him.
Its sharp, frank directness sprang from a simplicity and a strength that
had not been nurtured in the life he had lived. So far men had wandered
from truth and nature!

“I came to you as soon as I was able,” she went on. “I must have fainted.
I just had to drag myself around…. And now I can tell you.”

He was powerless to reply, as if she had put another unanswerable
question. What did she mean to tell him? What might she not tell him? She
loosed her hands from his and lifted them to his shoulders, and that was
the first conscious action of feeling, of intimacy, which she had ever
shown. It quite robbed Shefford of strength, and in spite of his sorrow
there was an indefinable thrill in her touch. He looked at her, saw the
white-and-gold beauty that was hers yesterday and seemed changed to-day,
and he recognized Fay Larkin in a woman he did not know.

“Listen! He came—”

“Fay, don’t—tell me,” interrupted Shefford.

“I WILL tell you,” she said.

Did the instinct of love teach her how to mitigate his pain? Shefford felt
that, as he felt the new-born strength in her.

“Listen,” she went on. “He came when I was undressing for bed. I heard the
horse. He knocked on the door. Something terrible happened to me then. I
felt sick and my head wasn’t clear. I remember next—his being in the
room—the lamp was out—I couldn’t see very well. He thought I
was sick and he gave me a drink and let the air blow in on me through the
window. I remember I lay back in the chair and I thought. And I listened.
When would you come? I didn’t feel that you could leave me there alone
with him. For his coming was different this time. That pain like a blade
in my side!… When it came I was not the same. I loved you. I understood
then. I belonged to you. I couldn’t let him touch me. I had never been his
wife. When I realized this—that he was there, that you might suffer
for it—I cried right out.

“He thought I was sick. He worked over me. He gave me medicine. And then
he prayed. I saw him, in the dark, on his knees, praying for me. That
seemed strange. Yet he was kind, so kind that I begged him to let me go. I
was not a Mormon. I couldn’t marry him. I begged him to let me go.

“Then he thought I had been deceiving him. He fell into a fury. He talked
for a long time. He called upon God to visit my sins upon me. He tried to
make me pray. But I wouldn’t. And then I fought him. I’d have screamed for
you had he not smothered me. I got weak…. And you never came. I know I
thought you would come. But you didn’t. Then I—I gave out. And after—some
time—I must have fainted.”

“Fay! For Heaven’s sake, how could I come to you?” burst out Shefford,
hoarse and white with remorse, passion, pain.

“If I’m any man’s wife I’m yours. It’s a thing you FEEL, isn’t it? I know
that now…. But I want to know what to do?”

“Fay!” he cried, huskily.

“I’m sick of it all. If it weren’t for you I’d climb the wall and throw
myself off. That would be easy for me. I’d love to die that way. All my
life I’ve been high up on the walls. To fall would be nothing!”

“Oh, you mustn’t talk like that!”

“Do you love me?” she asked, with a low and deathless sweetness.

“Love you? With all my heart! Nothing can change that!”

“Do you want me—as you used to want the Fay Larkin lost in Surprise
Valley? Do you love me that way? I understand things better than before,
but still—not all. I AM Fay Larkin. I think I must have dreamed of
you all my life. I was glad when you came here. I’ve been happy lately. I
forgot—till last night. Maybe it needed that to make me see I’ve
loved you all the time…. And I fought him like a wildcat!… Tell me the
truth. I feel I’m yours. Is that true? If I’m not—I’ll not live
another hour. Something holds me up. I am the same…. Do you want me?”

“Yes, Fay Larkin, I want you,” replied Shefford, steadily, with his grip
on her arms.

“Then take me away. I don’t want to live here another hour.”

“Fay, I’ll take you. But it can’t be done at once. We must plan. I need
help. There are Lassiter and Jane to get out of Surprise Valley. Give me
time, dear—give me time. It’ll be a hard job. And we must plan so we
can positively get away. Give me time, Fay.”

“Suppose HE comes back?” she queried, with a singular depth of voice.

“We’ll have to risk that,” replied Shefford, miserably. “But—he
won’t come soon.”

“He said he would,” she flashed.

Shefford seemed to freeze inwardly with her words. Love had made her a
woman and now the woman in her was speaking. She saw the truth as he could
not see it. And the truth was nature. She had been hidden all her life
from the world, from knowledge as he had it, yet when love betrayed her
womanhood to her she acquired all its subtlety.

“If I wait and he DOES come will you keep me from him?” she asked.

“How can I? I’m staking all on the chance of his not coming soon. … But,
Fay, if he DOES come and I don’t give up our secret—how on earth can
I keep you from him?” demanded Shefford.

“If you love me you will do it,” she said, as simply as if she were fate.

“But how?” cried Shefford, almost beside himself.

“You are a man. Any man would save the woman who loves him from—from—Oh,
from a beast!… How would Lassiter do it?”

“Lassiter!”

“YOU CAN KILL HIM!”

It was there, deep and full in her voice, the strength of the elemental
forces that had surrounded her, primitive passion and hate and love, as
they were in woman in the beginning.

“My God!” Shefford cried aloud with his spirit when all that was red in
him sprang again into a flame of hell. That was what had been wrong with
him last night. He could kill this stealthy night-rider, and now, face to
face with Fay, who had never been so beautiful and wonderful as in this
hour when she made love the only and the sacred thing of life, now he had
it in him to kill. Yet, murder—even to kill a brute—that was
not for John Shefford, not the way for him to save a woman. Reason and
wisdom still fought the passion in him. If he could but cling to them—have
them with him in the dark and contending hour!

She leaned against him now, exhausted, her soul in her eyes, and they saw
only him. Shefford was all but powerless to resist the longing to take her
into his arms, to hold her to his heart, to let himself go. Did not her
love give her to him? Shefford gazed helplessly at the stricken Joe Lake,
at the somber Indian, as if from them he expected help.

“I know him now,” said Fay, breaking the silence with startling
suddenness.

“What!”

“I’ve seen him in the light. I flashed a candle in his face. I saw it. I
know him now. He was there at Stonebridge with us, and I never knew him.
But I know him now. His name is—”

“For God’s sake don’t tell me who he is!” implored Shefford.

Ignorance was Shefford’s safeguard against himself. To make a name of this
heretofore intangible man, to give him an identity apart from the crowd,
to be able to recognize him—that for Shefford would be fatal.

“Fay—tell me—no more,” he said, brokenly. “I love you and I
will give you my life. Trust me. I swear I’ll save you.”

“Will you take me away soon?”

“Yes.”

She appeared satisfied with that and dropped her hands and moved back from
him. A light flitted over her white face, and her eyes grew dark and
humid, losing their fire in changing, shadowing thought of submission, of
trust, of hope.

“I can lead you to Surprise Valley,” she said. “I feel the way. It’s
there!” And she pointed to the west.

“Fay, we’ll go—soon. I must plan. I’ll see you to-night. Then we’ll
talk. Run home now, before some of the women see you here.”

She said good-by and started away under the cedars, out into the open
where her hair shone like gold in the sunlight, and she took the
stepping-stones with her old free grace, and strode down the path swift
and lithe as an Indian. Once she turned to wave a hand.

Shefford watched her with a torture of pride, love, hope, and fear
contending within him.

XIV. THE NAVAJO

That morning a Piute rode into the valley.

Shefford recognized him as the brave who had been in love with Glen Naspa.
The moment Nas Ta Bega saw this visitor he made a singular motion with his
hands—a motion that somehow to Shefford suggested despair—and
then he waited, somber and statuesque, for the messenger to come to him.
It was the Piute who did all the talking, and that was brief. Then the
Navajo stood motionless, with his hands crossed over his breast. Shefford
drew near and waited.

“Bi Nai,” said the Navajo, “Nas Ta Bega said his sister would come home
some day…. Glen Naspa is in the hogan of her grandfather.”

He spoke in his usual slow, guttural voice, and he might have been bronze
for all the emotion he expressed; yet Shefford instinctively felt the
despair that had been hinted to him, and he put his hand on the Indian’s
shoulder.

“If I am the Navajo’s brother, then I am brother to Glen Naspa,” he said.
“I will go with you to the hogan of Hosteen Doetin.”

Nas Ta Bega went away into the valley for the horses. Shefford hurried to
the village, made his excuses at the school, and then called to explain to
Fay that trouble of some kind had come to the Indian.

Soon afterward he was riding Nack-yal on the rough and winding trail up
through the broken country of cliffs and canyon to the great league-long
sage and cedar slope of the mountain. It was weeks since he had ridden the
mustang. Nack-yal was fat and lazy. He loved his master, but he did not
like the climb, and so fell far behind the lean and wiry pony that carried
Nas Ta Bega. The sage levels were as purple as the haze of the distance,
and there was a bitter-sweet tang on the strong, cool wind. The sun was
gold behind the dark line of fringe on the mountain-top. A flock of sheep
swept down one of the sage levels, looking like a narrow stream of white
and black and brown. It was always amazing for Shefford to see how swiftly
these Navajo sheep grazed along. Wild mustangs plunged out of the cedar
clumps and stood upon the ridges, whistling defiance or curiosity, and
their manes and tails waved in the wind.

Shefford mounted slowly to the cedar bench in the midst of which were
hidden the few hogans. And he halted at the edge to dismount and take a
look at that downward-sweeping world of color, of wide space, at the wild
desert upland which from there unrolled its magnificent panorama.

Then he passed on into the cedars. How strange to hear the lambs bleating
again! Lambing-time had come early, but still spring was there in the new
green of grass, in the bright upland flower. He led his mustang out of the
cedars into the cleared circle. It was full of colts and lambs, and there
were the shepherd-dogs and a few old rams and ewes. But the circle was a
quiet place this day. There were no Indians in sight. Shefford loosened
the saddle-girths on Nack-yal and, leaving him to graze, went toward the
hogan of Hosteen Doetin. A blanket was hung across the door. Shefford
heard a low chanting. He waited beside the door till the covering was
pulled in, then he entered.

Hosteen Doetin met him, clasped his hand. The old Navajo could not speak;
his fine face was working in grief; tears streamed from his dim old eyes
and rolled down his wrinkled cheeks. His sorrow was no different from a
white man’s sorrow. Beyond him Shefford saw Nas Ta Bega standing with
folded arms, somehow terrible in his somber impassiveness. At his feet
crouched the old woman, Hosteen Doetin’s wife, and beside her, prone and
quiet, half covered with a blanket, lay Glen Naspa.

She was dead. To Shefford she seemed older than when he had last seen her.
And she was beautiful. Calm, cold, dark, with only bitter lips to give the
lie to peace! There was a story in those lips.

At her side, half hidden under the fold of blanket, lay a tiny bundle. Its
human shape startled Shefford. Then he did not need to be told the
tragedy. When he looked again at Glen Naspa’s face he seemed to understand
all that had made her older, to feel the pain that had lined and set her
lips.

She was dead, and she was the last of Nas Ta Bega’s family. In the old
grandfather’s agony, in the wild chant of the stricken grandmother, in the
brother’s stern and terrible calmness Shefford felt more than the death of
a loved one. The shadow of ruin, of doom, of death hovered over the girl
and her family and her tribe and her race. There was no consolation to
offer these relatives of Glen Naspa. Shefford took one more fascinated
gaze at her dark, eloquent, prophetic face, at the tragic tiny shape by
her side, and then with bowed head he left the hogan.

. . . . . . . . . . .

Outside he paced to and fro, with an aching heart for Nas Ta Bega, with
something of the white man’s burden of crime toward the Indian weighing
upon his soul.

Old Hosteen Doetin came to him with shaking hands and words memorable of
the time Glen Naspa left his hogan.

“Me no savvy Jesus Christ. Me hungry. Me no eat Jesus Christ!”

That seemed to be all of his trouble that he could express to Shefford. He
could not understand the religion of the missionary, this Jesus Christ who
had called his granddaughter away. And the great fear of an old Indian was
not death, but hunger. Shefford remembered a custom of the Navajos, a
thing barbarous looked at with a white man’s mind. If an old Indian failed
on a long march he was inclosed by a wall of stones, given plenty to eat
and drink, and left there to die in the desert. Not death did he fear, but
hunger! Old Hosteen Doetin expected to starve, now that the young and
strong squaw of his family was gone.

Shefford spoke in his halting Navajo and assured the old Indian that Nas
Ta Bega would never let him starve.

At sunset Shefford stood with Nas Ta Bega facing the west. The Indian was
magnificent in repose. He watched the sun go down upon the day that had
seen the burial of the last of his family. He resembled an impassive
destiny, upon which no shocks fell. He had the light of that flaring
golden sky in his face, the majesty of the mountain in his mien, the
silence of the great gulf below on his lips. This educated Navajo, who had
reverted to the life of his ancestors, found in the wildness and
loneliness of his environment a strength no white teaching could ever have
given him. Shefford sensed in him a measureless grief, an impenetrable
gloom, a tragic acceptance of the meaning of Glen Naspa’s ruin and death—the
vanishing of his race from the earth. Death had written the law of such
bitter truth round Glen Naspa’s lips, and the same truth was here in the
grandeur and gloom of the Navajo.

“Bi Nai,” he said, with the beautiful sonorous roll in his voice, “Glen
Naspa is in her grave and there are no paths to the place of her sleep.
Glen Naspa is gone.”

“Gone! Where? Nas Ta Bega, remember I lost my own faith, and I have not
yet learned yours.”

“The Navajo has one mother—the earth. Her body has gone to the earth
and it will become dust. But her spirit is in the air. It shall whisper to
me from the wind. I shall hear it on running waters. It will hide in the
morning music of a mocking-bird and in the lonely night cry of the canyon
hawk. Her blood will go to make the red of the Indian flowers and her soul
will rest at midnight in the lily that opens only to the moon. She will
wait in the shadow for me, and live in the great mountain that is my home,
and for ever step behind me on the trail.”

“You will kill Willetts?” demanded Shefford.

“The Navajo will not seek the missionary.”

“But if you meet him you’ll kill him?”

“Bi Nai, would Nas Ta Bega kill after it is too late? What good could
come? The Navajo is above revenge.”

“If he crosses my trail I think I couldn’t help but kill him,” muttered
Shefford in a passion that wrung the threat from him.

The Indian put his arm round the white man’s shoulders.

“Bi Nai, long ago I made you my brother. And now you make me your brother.
Is it not so? Glen Naspa’s spirit calls for wisdom, not revenge. Willetts
must be a bad man. But we’ll let him live. Life will punish him. Who knows
if he was all to blame? Glen Naspa was only one pretty Indian girl. There
are many white men in the desert. She loved a white man when she was a
baby. The thing was a curse. … Listen, Bi Nai, and the Navajo will talk.

“Many years ago the Spanish padres, the first white men, came into the
land of the Indian. Their search was for gold. But they were not wicked
men. They did not steal and kill. They taught the Indian many useful
things. They brought him horses. But when they went away they left him
unsatisfied with his life and his god.

“Then came the pioneers. They crossed the great river and took the
pasture-lands and the hunting-grounds of the Indian. They drove him
backward, and the Indian grew sullen. He began to fight. The white man’s
government made treaties with the Indian, and these were broken. Then war
came—fierce and bloody war. The Indian was driven to the waste
places. The stream of pioneers, like a march of ants, spread on into the
desert. Every valley where grass grew, every river, became a place for
farms and towns. Cattle choked the water-holes where the buffalo and deer
had once gone to drink. The forests in the hills were cut and the springs
dried up. And the pioneers followed to the edge of the desert.

“Then came the prospectors, mad, like the padres for the gleam of gold.
The day was not long enough for them to dig in the creeks and the canyon;
they worked in the night. And they brought weapons and rum to the Indian,
to buy from him the secret of the places where the shining gold lay
hidden.

“Then came the traders. And they traded with the Indian. They gave him
little for much, and that little changed his life. He learned a taste for
the sweet foods of the white man. Because he could trade for a sack of
flour he worked less in the field. And the very fiber of his bones
softened.

“Then came the missionaries. They were proselytizers for converts to their
religion. The missionaries are good men. There may be a bad missionary,
like Willetts, the same as there are bad men in other callings, or bad
Indians. They say Shadd is a half-breed. But the Piutes can tell you he is
a full-blood, and he, like me, was sent to a white man’s school. In the
beginning the missionaries did well for the Indian. They taught him
cleaner ways of living, better farming, useful work with tools—many
good things. But the wrong to the Indian was the undermining of his faith.
It was not humanity that sent the missionary to the Indian. Humanity would
have helped the Indian in his ignorance of sickness and work, and left him
his god. For to trouble the Indian about his god worked at the roots of
his nature.

“The beauty of the Indian’s life is in his love of the open, of all that
is nature, of silence, freedom, wildness. It is a beauty of mind and soul.
The Indian would have been content to watch and feel. To a white man he
might be dirty and lazy—content to dream life away without trouble
or what the white man calls evolution. The Indian might seem cruel because
he leaves his old father out in the desert to die. But the old man wants
to die that way, alone with his spirits and the sunset. And the white
man’s medicine keeps his old father alive days and days after he ought to
be dead. Which is more cruel? The Navajos used to fight with other tribes,
and then they were stronger men than they are to-day.

“But leaving religion, greed, and war out of the question, contact with
the white man would alone have ruined the Indian. The Indian and the white
man cannot mix. The Indian brave learns the habits of the white man,
acquires his diseases, and has not the mind or body to withstand them. The
Indian girl learns to love the white man—and that is death of her
Indian soul, if not of life.

“So the red man is passing. Tribes once powerful have died in the life of
Nas Ta Bega. The curse of the white man is already heavy upon my race in
the south. Here in the north, in the wildest corner of the desert, chased
here by the great soldier, Carson, the Navajo has made his last stand.

“Bi Nai, you have seen the shadow in the hogan of Hosteen Doetin. Glen
Naspa has gone to her grave, and no sisters, no children, will make paths
to the place of her sleep. Nas Ta Bega will never have a wife—a
child. He sees the end. It is the sunset of the Navajo…. Bi Nai, the
Navajo is dying—dying—dying!”

XV. WILD JUSTICE

A crescent moon hung above the lofty peak over the valley and a train of
white stars ran along the bold rim of the western wall. A few young frogs
peeped plaintively. The night was cool, yet had a touch of balmy spring,
and a sweeter fragrance, as if the cedars and pinyons had freshened in the
warm sun of that day.

Shefford and Fay were walking in the aisles of moonlight and the patches
of shade, and Nas Ta Bega, more than ever a shadow of his white brother,
followed them silently.

“Fay, it’s growing late. Feel the dew?” said Shefford. “Come, I must take
you back.”

“But the time’s so short. I have said nothing that I wanted to say,” she
replied.

“Say it quickly, then, as we go.”

“After all, it’s only—will you take me away soon?”

“Yes, very soon. The Indian and I have talked. But we’ve made no plan yet.
There are only three ways to get out of this country. By Stonebridge, by
Kayenta and Durango, and by Red Lake. We must choose one. All are
dangerous. We must lose time finding Surprise Valley. I hoped the Indian
could find it. Then we’d bring Lassiter and Jane here and hide them near
till dark, then take you and go. That would give us a night’s start. But
you must help us to Surprise Valley.”

“I can go right to it, blindfolded, or in the dark…. Oh, John, hurry! I
dread the wait. He might come again.”

“Joe says—they won’t come very soon.”

“Is it far—where we’re going—out of the country?”

“Ten days’ hard riding.”

“Oh! That night ride to and from Stonebridge nearly killed me. But I could
walk very far, and climb for ever.”

“Fay, we’ll get out of the country if I have to carry you.”

When they arrived at the cabin Fay turned on the porch step and, with her
face nearer a level with his, white and sweet in the moonlight, with her
eyes shining and unfathomable, she was more than beautiful.

“You’ve never been inside my house,” she said. “Come in. I’ve something
for you.”

“But it’s late,” he remonstrated. “I suppose you’ve got me a cake or pie—something
to eat. You women all think Joe and I have to be fed.”

“No. You’d never guess. Come in,” she said, and the rare smile on her face
was something Shefford would have gone far to see.

“Well, then, for a minute.”

He crossed the porch, the threshold, and entered her home. Her dim, white
shape moved in the darkness. And he followed into a room where the moon
shone through the open window, giving soft, mellow, shadowy light. He
discerned objects, but not clearly, for his senses seemed absorbed in the
strange warmth and intimacy of being for the first time with her in her
home.

“No, it’s not good to eat,” she said, and her laugh was happy. “Here—”

Suddenly she abruptly ceased speaking. Shefford saw her plainly, and the
slender form had stiffened, alert and strained. She was listening.

“What was that?” she whispered.

“I didn’t hear anything,” he whispered back.

He stepped softly nearer the open window and listened.

Clip-clop! clip-clop! clip-clop! Hard hoofs on the hard path outside!

A strong and rippling thrill went over Shefford. In the soft light her
eyes seemed unnaturally large and black and fearful.

Clip-clop! clip-clop!

The horse stopped outside. Then followed a metallic clink of spur against
stirrup—thud of boots on hard ground—heavy footsteps upon the
porch.

A swift, cold contraction of throat, of breast, convulsed Shefford. His
only thought was that he could not think.

“Ho—Mary!”

A voice liberated both Shefford’s muscle and mind—a voice of
strange, vibrant power. Authority of religion and cruelty of will—these
Mormon attributes constituted that power. And Shefford suffered a
transformation which must have been ordered by demons. That sudden flame
seemed to curl and twine and shoot along his veins with blasting force. A
rancorous and terrible cry leaped to his lips.

“Ho—Mary!” Then came a heavy tread across the threshold of the outer
room.

Shefford dared not look at Fay. Yet, dimly, from the corner of his eye, he
saw her, a pale shadow, turned to stone, with her arms out. If he looked,
if he made sure of that, he was lost. When had he drawn his gun? It was
there, a dark and glinting thing in his hand. He must fly—not
through cowardice and fear, but because in one more moment he would kill a
man. Swift as the thought he dove through the open window. And, leaping
up, he ran under the dark pinyons toward camp.

Joe Lake had been out late himself. He sat by the fire, smoking his pipe.
He must have seen or heard Shefford coming, for he rose with unwonted
alacrity, and he kicked the smoldering logs into a flickering blaze.

Shefford, realizing his deliverance, came panting, staggering into the
light. The Mormon uttered an exclamation. Then he spoke, anxiously, but
what he said was not clear in Shefford’s thick and throbbing ears. He
dropped his pipe, a sign of perturbation, and he stared.

But Shefford, without a word, lunged swiftly away into the shadow of the
cedars. He found relief in action. He began a steep ascent of the east
wall, a dangerous slant he had never dared even in daylight, and he
climbed it without a slip. Danger, steep walls, perilous heights, night,
and black canyon the same—these he never thought of. But something
drove him to desperate effort, that the hours might seem short.

. . . . . . . . . . .

The red sun was tipping the eastern wall when he returned to camp, and he
was neither calm nor sure of himself nor ready for sleep or food. Only he
had put the night behind him.

The Indian showed no surprise. But Joe Lake’s jaw dropped and his eyes
rolled. Moreover, Joe bore a singular aspect, the exact nature of which
did not at once dawn upon Shefford.

“By God! you’ve got nerve—or you’re crazy!” he ejaculated, hoarsely.

Then it was Shefford’s turn to stare. The Mormon was haggard, grieved,
frightened, and utterly amazed. He appeared to be trying to make certain
of Shefford’s being there in the flesh and then to find reason for it.

“I’ve no nerve and I am crazy,” replied Shefford. “But, Joe—what do
you mean? Why do you look at me like that?”

“I reckon if I get your horse that’ll square us. Did you come back for
him? You’d better hit the trail quick.”

“It’s you now who’re crazy,” burst out Shefford.

“Wish to God I was,” replied Joe.

It was then Shefford realized catastrophe, and cold fear gnawed at his
vitals, so that he was sick.

“Joe, what has happened?” he asked, with the blood thick in his heart.

“Hadn’t you better tell me?” demanded the Mormon, and a red wave blotted
out the haggard shade of his face.

“You talk like a fool,” said Shefford, sharply, and he strode right up to
Joe.

“See here, Shefford, we’ve been pards. You’re making it hard for me.
Reckon you ain’t square.”

Shefford shot out a long arm and his hand clutched the Mormon’s burly
shoulder.

“Why am I not square? What do you mean?”

Joe swallowed hard and gave himself a shake. Then he eyed his comrade
steadily.

“I was afraid you’d kill him. I reckon I can’t blame you. I’ll help you
get away. And I’m a Mormon! Do you take the hunch?… But don’t deny you
killed him!”

“Killed whom?” gasped Shefford.

“Her husband!”

Shefford seemed stricken by a slow, paralyzing horror. The Mormon’s
changing face grew huge and indistinct and awful in his sight. He was
clutched and shaken in Joe’s rude hands, yet scarcely felt them. Joe
seemed to be bellowing at him, but the voice was far off. Then Shefford
began to see, to hear through some cold and terrible deadness that had
come between him and everything.

“Say YOU killed him!” hoarsely supplicated the Mormon.

Shefford had not yet control of speech. Something in his gaze appeared to
drive Joe frantic.

“Damn you! Tell me quick. Say YOU killed him!… If you want to know my
stand, why, I’m glad!… Shefford, don’t look so stony! … For HER sake,
say you killed him!”

Shefford stood with a face as gray and still as stone. With a groan the
Mormon drew away from him and sank upon a log. He bowed his head; his
broad shoulders heaved; husky sounds came from him. Then with a violent
wrench he plunged to his feet and shook himself like a huge, savage dog.

“Reckon it’s no time to weaken,” he said, huskily, and with the words a
dark, hard, somber bitterness came to his face.

“Where—is—she?” whispered Shefford.

“Shut up in the school-house,” he replied.

“Did she—did she—”

“She neither denied nor confessed.”

“Have you—seen her?”

“Yes.”

“How did—she look?”

“Cool and quiet as the Indian there…. Game as hell! She always had stuff
in her.”

“Oh, Joe!… It’s unbelievable!” cried Shefford. “That lovely, innocent
girl! She couldn’t—she couldn’t.”

“She’s fixed him. Don’t think of that. It’s too late. We ought to have
saved her.”

“God!… She begged me to hurry—to take her away.”

“Think what we can do NOW to save her,” cut in the Mormon.

Shefford sustained a vivifying shock. “To save her?” he echoed.

“Think, man!”

“Joe, I can hit the trail and let you tell them I killed him,” burst out
Shefford in panting excitement.

“Reckon I can.”

“So help me God I’ll do it!”

The Mormon turned a dark and austere glance upon Shefford.

“You mustn’t leave her. She killed him for your sake…. You must fight
for her now—save her—take her away.”

“But the law!”

“Law!” scoffed Joe. “In these wilds men get killed and there’s no law. But
if she’s taken back to Stonebridge those iron-jawed old Mormons will make
law enough to—to… Shefford, the thing is—get her away. Once
out of the country, she’s safe. Mormons keep their secrets.”

“I’ll take her. Joe, will you help me?”

Shefford, even in his agitation, felt the Mormon’s silence to be a consent
that need not have been asked. And Shefford had a passionate gratefulness
toward his comrade. That stultifying and blinding prejudice which had
always seemed to remove a Mormon outside the pale of certain virtue
suffered final eclipse; and Joe Lake stood out a man, strange and crude,
but with a heart and a soul.

“Joe, tell me what to do,” said Shefford, with a simplicity that meant he
needed only to be directed.

“Pull yourself together. Get your nerve back,” replied Joe. “Reckon you’d
better show yourself over there. No one saw you come in this morning—your
absence from camp isn’t known. It’s better you seem curious and shocked
like the rest of us. Come on. We’ll go over. And afterward we’ll get the
Indian, and plan.”

They left camp and, crossing the brook, took the shaded path toward the
village. Hope of saving Fay, the need of all his strength and nerve and
cunning to effect that end, gave Shefford the supreme courage to overcome
his horror and fear. On that short walk under the pinyons to Fay’s cabin
he had suffered many changes of emotion, but never anything like this
change which made him fierce and strong to fight, deep and crafty to plan,
hard as iron to endure.

The village appeared very quiet, though groups of women stood at the doors
of cabins. If they talked, it was very low. Henninger and Smith, two of
the three Mormon men living in the village, were standing before the
closed door of the school-house. A tigerish feeling thrilled Shefford when
he saw them on guard there. Shefford purposely avoided looking at Fay’s
cabin as long as he could keep from it. When he had to look he saw several
hooded, whispering women in the yard, and Beal, the other Mormon man,
standing in the cabin door. Upon the porch lay the long shape of a man,
covered with blankets.

Shefford experienced a horrible curiosity.

“Say, Beal, I’ve fetched Shefford over,” said Lake. “He’s pretty much cut
up.”

Beal wagged a solemn head, but said nothing. His mind seemed absent or
steeped in gloom, and he looked up as one silently praying.

Joe Lake strode upon the little porch and, reaching down, he stripped the
blanket from the shrouded form.

Shefford saw a sharp, cold, ghastly face. “WAGGONER!” he whispered.

“Yes,” replied Lake.

Waggoner! Shefford remembered the strange power in his face, and, now that
life had gone, that power was stripped of all disguise. Death, in
Shefford’s years of ministry, had lain under his gaze many times and in a
multiplicity of aspects, but never before had he seen it stamped so
strangely. Shefford did not need to be told that here was a man who
believed he had conversed with God on earth, who believed he had a divine
right to rule women, who had a will that would not yield itself to death
utterly. Waggoner, then, was the devil who had come masked to Surprise
Valley, had forced a martyrdom upon Fay Larkin. And this was the Mormon
who had made Fay Larkin a murderess. Shefford had hated him living, and
now he hated him dead. Death here was robbed of all nobility, of pathos,
of majesty. It was only retribution. Wild justice! But alas! that it had
to be meted out by a white-soled girl whose innocence was as great as the
unconscious savagery which she had assimilated from her lonely and wild
environment. Shefford laid a despairing curse upon his own head, and a
terrible remorse knocked at his heart. He had left her alone, this girl in
whom love had made the great change—like a coward he had left her
alone. That curse he visited upon himself because he had been the spirit
and the motive of this wild justice, and his should have been the deed.

Joe Lake touched Shefford’s arm and pointed at the haft of a knife
protruding from Waggoner’s breast. It was a wooden haft. Shefford had seen
it before somewhere.

Then he was struck with what perhaps Joe meant him to see—the
singular impression the haft gave of one sweeping, accurate, powerful
stroke. A strong arm had driven that blade home. The haft was sunk deep;
there was a little depression in the cloth; no blood showed; and the
weapon looked as if it could not be pulled out. Shefford’s thought went
fatally and irresistibly to Fay Larkin’s strong arm. He saw her flash that
white arm and lift the heavy bucket from the spring with an ease he
wondered at. He felt the strong clasp of her hand as she had given it to
him in a flying leap across a crevice upon the walls. Yes, her fine hand
and the round, strong arm possessed the strength to have given that blade
its singular directness and force. The marvel was not in the physical
action. It hid inscrutably in the mystery of deadly passion rising out of
a gentle and sad heart.

Joe Lake drew up the blanket and shut from Shefford’s fascinated gaze that
spare form, that accusing knife, that face of strange, cruel power.

“Anybody been sent for?” asked Lake of Beal.

“Yes. An Indian boy went for the Piute. We’ll send him to Stonebridge,”
replied the Mormon.

“How soon do you expect any one here from Stonebridge?”

“To-morrow, mebbe by noon.”

“Meantime what’s to be done with—this?”

“Elder Smith thinks the body should stay right here where it fell till
they come from Stonebridge.”

“Waggoner was found here, then?”

“Right here.”

“Who found him?”

“Mother Smith. She came over early. An’ the sight made her scream. The
women all came runnin’. Mother Smith had to be put to bed.”

“Who found—Mary?”

“See here, Joe, I told you all I knowed once before,” replied the Mormon,
testily.

“I’ve forgotten. Was sort of bewildered. Tell me again…. Who found—her?”

“The women folks. She laid right inside the door, in a dead faint. She
hadn’t undressed. There was blood on her hands an’ a cut or scratch. The
women fetched her to. But she wouldn’t talk. Then Elder Smith come an’
took her. They’ve got her locked up.”

Then Joe led Shefford away from the cabin farther on into the village.
When they were halted by the somber, grieving women it was Joe who did the
talking. They passed the school-house, and here Shefford quickened his
step. He could scarcely bear the feeling that rushed over him. And the
Mormon gripped his arm as if he understood.

“Shefford, which one of these younger women do you reckon your best
friend? Ruth?” asked Lake, earnestly.

“Ruth, by all means. Just lately I haven’t seen her often. But we’ve been
close friends. I think she’d do much for me.”

“Maybe there’ll be a chance to find out. Maybe we’ll need Ruth. Let’s have
a word with her. I haven’t seen her out among the women.”

They stopped at the door of Ruth’s cabin. It was closed. When Joe knocked
there came a sound of footsteps inside, a hand drew aside the
window-blind, and presently the door opened. Ruth stood there, dressed in
somber hue. She was a pretty, slender, blue-eyed, brown-haired young
woman.

Shefford imagined from her pallor and the set look of shock upon her face,
that the tragedy had affected her more powerfully than it had the other
women. When he remembered that she had been more friendly with Fay Larkin
than any other neighbor, he made sure he was right in his conjecture.

“Come in,” was Ruth’s greeting.

“No. We just wanted to say a word. I noticed you’ve not been out. Do you
know—all about it?”

She gave them a strange glance.

“Any of the women folks been in?” added Joe.

“Hester ran over. She told me through the window. Then I barred my door to
keep the other women out.”

“What for?” asked Joe, curiously.

“Please come in,” she said, in reply.

They entered, and she closed the door after them. The change that came
over her then was the loosing of restraint.

“Joe—what will they do with Mary?” she queried, tensely.

The Mormon studied her with dark, speculative eyes. “Hang her!” he
rejoined in brutal harshness.

“O Mother of Saints!” she cried, and her hands went up.

“You’re sorry for Mary, then?” asked Joe, bluntly.

“My heart is breaking for her.”

“Well, so’s Shefford’s,” said the Mormon, huskily. “And mine’s kind of
damn shaky.”

Ruth glided to Shefford with a woman’s swift softness.

“You’ve been my good—my best friend. You were hers, too. Oh, I know!
… Can’t you do something for her?”

“I hope to God I can,” replied Shefford.

Then the three stood looking from one to the other, in a strong and subtly
realizing moment drawn together.

“Ruth,” whispered Joe, hoarsely, and then he glanced fearfully around, at
the window and door, as if listeners were there. It was certain that his
dark face had paled. He tried to whisper more, only to fail. Shefford
divined the weight of Mormonism that burdened Joe Lake then. Joe was
faithful to a love for Fay Larkin, noble in friendship to Shefford,
desperate in a bitter strait with his own manliness, but the power of that
creed by which he had been raised struck his lips mute. For to speak on
meant to be false to that creed. Already in his heart he had decided, yet
he could not voice the thing.

“Ruth”—Shefford took up the Mormon’s unfinished whisper—“if we
plan to save her—if we need you—will you help?”

Ruth turned white, but an instant and splendid fire shone in her eyes.

“Try me,” she whispered back. “I’ll change places with her—so you
can get her away. They can’t do much to me.”

Shefford wrung her hands. Joe licked his lips and found his voice: “We’ll
come back later.” Then he led the way out and Shefford followed. They were
silent all the way back to camp.

Nas Ta Bega sat in repose where they had left him, a thoughtful, somber
figure. Shefford went directly to the Indian, and Joe tarried at the
camp-fire, where he raked out some red embers and put one upon the bowl of
his pipe. He puffed clouds of white smoke, then found a seat beside the
others.

“Shefford, go ahead. Talk. It’ll take a deal of talk. I’ll listen. Then
I’ll talk. It’ll be Nas Ta Bega who makes the plan out of it all.”

Shefford launched himself so swiftly that he scarcely talked coherently.
But he made clear the points that he must save Fay, get her away from the
village, let her lead him to Surprise Valley, rescue Lassiter and Jane
Withersteen, and take them all out of the country.

Joe Lake dubiously shook his head. Manifestly the Surprise Valley part of
the situation presented a new and serious obstacle. It changed the whole
thing. To try to take the three out by way of Kayenta and Durango was not
to be thought of, for reasons he briefly stated. The Red Lake trail was
the only one left, and if that were taken the chances were against
Shefford. It was five days over sand to Red Lake—impossible to hide
a trail—and even with a day’s start Shefford could not escape the
hard-riding men who would come from Stonebridge. Besides, after reaching
Red Lake, there were days and days of desert-travel needful to avoid
places like Blue canyon, Tuba, Moencopie, and the Indian villages.

“We’ll have to risk all that,” declared Shefford, desperately.

“It’s a fool risk,” retorted Joe. “Listen. By tomorrow noon all of
Stonebridge, more or less, will be riding in here. You’ve got to get away
to-night with the girl—or never! And to-morrow you’ve got to find
that Lassiter and the woman in Surprise Valley. This valley must be back,
deep in the canyon country. Well, you’ve got to come out this way again.
No trail through here would be safe. Why, you’d put all your heads in a
rope!… You mustn’t come through this way. It’ll have to be tried across
country, off the trails, and that means hell—day-and-night travel,
no camp, no feed for horses—maybe no water. Then you’ll have the
best trackers in Utah like hounds on your trail.”

When the Mormon ceased his forceful speech there was a silence fraught
with hopeless meaning. He bowed his head in gloom. Shefford, growing sick
again to his marrow, fought a cold, hateful sense of despair.

“Bi Nai!” In his extremity he called to the Indian.

“The Navajo has heard,” replied Nas Ta Bega, strangely speaking in his own
language.

With a long, slow heave of breast Shefford felt his despair leave him. In
the Indian lay his salvation. He knew it. Joe Lake caught the subtle
spirit of the moment and looked up eagerly.

Nas Ta Bega stretched an arm toward the east, and spoke in Navajo. But
Shefford, owing to the hurry and excitement of his mind, could not
translate. Joe Lake listened, gave a violent start, leaped up with all his
big frame quivering, and then fired question after question at the Indian.
When the Navajo had replied to all, Joe drew himself up as if facing an
irrevocable decision which would wring his very soul. What did he cast off
in that moment? What did he grapple with? Shefford had no means to tell,
except by the instinct which baffled him. But whether the Mormon’s trial
was one of spiritual rending or the natural physical fear of a perilous,
virtually impossible venture, the fact was he was magnificent in his
acceptance of it. He turned to Shefford, white, cold, yet glowing.

“Nas Ta Bega believes he can take you down a canyon to the big river—the
Colorado. He knows the head of this canyon. Nonnezoshe Boco it’s called—canyon
of the rainbow bridge. He has never been down it. Only two or three living
Indians have ever seen the great stone bridge. But all have heard of it.
They worship it as a god. There’s water runs down this canyon and water
runs to the river. Nas Ta Bega thinks he can take you down to the river.”

“Go on,” cried Shefford breathlessly, as Joe paused.

“The Indian plans this way. God, it’s great!… If only I can do my
end!… He plans to take mustangs to-day and wait with them for you
to-night or to-morrow till you come with the girl. You’ll go get Lassiter
and the woman out of Surprise Valley. Then you’ll strike east for
Nonnezoshe Boco. If possible, you must take a pack of grub. You may be
days going down—and waiting for me at the mouth of the canyon, at
the river.”

“Joe! Where will you be?”

“I’ll ride like hell for Kayenta, get another horse there, and ride like
hell for the San Juan River. There’s a big flatboat at the Durango
crossing. I’ll go down the San Juan in that—into the big river. I’ll
drift down by day, tie up by night, and watch for you at the mouth of
every canyon till I come to Nonnezoshe Boco.”

Shefford could not believe the evidence of his ears. He knew the
treacherous San Juan River. He had heard of the great, sweeping, terrible
red Colorado and its roaring rapids.

“Oh, it seems impossible!” he gasped. “You’ll just lose your life for
nothing.”

“The Indian will turn the trick, I tell you. Take my hunch. It’s nothing
for me to drift down a swift river. I worked a ferry-boat once.”

Shefford, to whom flying straws would have seemed stable, caught the
inflection of defiance and daring and hope of the Mormon’s spirit.

“What then—after you meet us at the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco?” he
queried.

“We’ll all drift down to Lee’s Ferry. That’s at the head of Marble canyon.
We’ll get out on the south side of the river, thus avoiding any Mormons at
the ferry. Nas Ta Bega knows the country. It’s open desert—on the
other side of these plateaus. He can get horses from Navajos. Then you’ll
strike south for Willow Springs.”

“Willow Springs? That’s Presbrey’s trading-post,” said Shefford.

“Never met him. But he’ll see you safe out of the Painted Desert. … The
thing that worries me most is how not to miss you all at the mouth of
Nonnezoshe. You must have sharp eyes. But I forget the Indian. A bird
couldn’t pass him…. And suppose Nonnezoshe Boco has a steep-walled,
narrow mouth opening into a rapids!… Whew! Well, the Indian will figure
that, too. Now, let’s put our heads together and plan how to turn this end
of the trick here. Getting the girl!”

After a short colloquy it was arranged that Shefford would go to Ruth and
talk to her of the aid she had promised. Joe averred that this aid could
be best given by Ruth going in her somber gown and hood to the
school-house, and there, while Joe and Shefford engaged the guards
outside, she would change apparel and places with Fay and let her come
forth.

“What’ll they do to Ruth?” demanded Shefford. “We can’t accept her
sacrifice if she’s to suffer—or be punished.”

“Reckon Ruth has a strong hunch that she can get away with it. Did you
notice how strange she said that? Well, they can’t do much to her. The
bishop may damn her soul. But—Ruth—”

Here Lake hesitated and broke off. Not improbably he had meant to say that
of all the Mormon women in the valley Ruth was the least likely to suffer
from punishment inflicted upon her soul.

“Anyway, it’s our only chance,” went on Joe, “unless we kill a couple of
men. Ruth will gladly take what comes to help you.”

“All right; I consent,” replied Shefford, with emotion. “And now after she
comes out—the supposed Ruth—what then?”

“You can be natural-like. Go with her back to Ruth’s cabin. Then stroll
off into the cedars. Then climb the west wall. Meanwhile Nas Ta Bega will
ride off with a pack of grub and Nack-yal and several other mustangs.
He’ll wait for you or you’ll wait for him, as the case may be, at some
appointed place. When you’re gone I’ll jump my horse and hit the trail for
Kayenta and the San Juan.”

“Very well; that’s settled,” said Shefford, soberly. “I’ll go at once to
see Ruth. You and Nas Ta Bega decide on where I’m to meet him.”

“Reckon you’d do just as well to walk round and come up to Ruth’s from the
other side—instead of going through the village,” suggested Joe.

Shefford approached Ruth’s cabin in a roundabout way; nevertheless, she
saw him coming before he got there and, opening the door, stood pale,
composed, and quietly bade him enter. Briefly, in low and earnest voice,
Shefford acquainted her with the plan.

“You love her so much,” she said, wistfully, wonderingly.

“Indeed I do. Is it too much to ask of you to do this thing?” he asked.

“Do it?” she queried, with a flash of spirit. “Of course I’ll do it.”

“Ruth, I can’t thank you. I can’t. I’ve only a faint idea what you’re
risking. That distresses me. I’m afraid of what may happen to you.”

She gave him another of the strange glances. “I don’t risk so much as you
think,” she said, significantly.

“Why?”

She came close to him, and her hands clasped his arms and she looked up at
him, her eyes darkening and her face growing paler. “Will you swear to
keep my secret?” she asked, very low.

“Yes, I swear.”

“I was one of Waggoner’s sealed wives!”

“God Almighty!” broke out Shefford, utterly overwhelmed.

“Yes. That’s why I say I don’t risk so much. I will make up a story to
tell the bishop and everybody. I’ll tell that Waggoner was jealous, that
he was brutal to Mary, that I believed she was goaded to her mad deed,
that I thought she ought to be free. They’ll be terrible. But what can
they do to me? My husband is dead… and if I have to go to hell to keep
from marrying another married Mormon, I’ll go!”

In that low, passionate utterance Shefford read the death-blow to the old
Mormon polygamous creed. In the uplift of his spirit, in the joy at this
revelation, he almost forgot the stern matter at hand. Ruth and Joe Lake
belonged to a younger generation of Mormons. Their nobility in this
instance was in part a revolt at the conditions of their lives. Doubt was
knocking at Joe Lake’s heart, and conviction had come to this young sealed
wife, bitter and hopeless while she had been fettered, strong and mounting
now that she was free. In a flash of inspiration Shefford saw the old
order changing. The Mormon creed might survive, but that part of it which
was an affront to nature, a horrible yoke on women’s necks, was doomed. It
could not live. It could never have survived more than a generation or two
of religious fanatics. Shefford had marked a different force and religious
fervor in the younger Mormons, and now he understood them.

“Ruth, you talk wildly,” he said. “But I understand. I see. You are free
and you’re going to stay free…. It stuns me to think of that man of many
wives. What did you feel when you were told he was dead?”

“I dare not think of that. It makes me—wicked. And he was good to
me…. Listen. Last night about midnight he came to my window and woke me.
I got up and let him in. He was in a terrible state. I thought he was
crazy. He walked the floor and called on his saints and prayed. When I
wanted to light a lamp he wouldn’t let me. He was afraid I’d see his face.
But I saw well enough in the moonlight. And I knew something had happened.
So I soothed and coaxed him. He had been a man as close-mouthed as a
stone. Yet then I got him to talk…. He had gone to Mary’s, and upon
entering, thought he heard some one with her. She didn’t answer him at
first. When he found her in her bedroom she was like a ghost. He accused
her. Her silence made him furious. Then he berated her, brought down the
wrath of God upon her, threatened her with damnation. All of which she
never seemed to hear. But when he tried to touch her she flew at him like
a she-panther. That’s what he called her. She said she’d kill him! And she
drove him out of her house…. He was all weak and unstrung, and I believe
scared, too, when he came to me. She must have been a fury. Those quiet,
gentle women are furies when they’re once roused. Well, I was hours up
with him and finally he got over it. He didn’t pray any more. He paced the
room. It was just daybreak when he said the wrath of God had come to him.
I tried to keep him from going back to Mary. But he went…. An hour later
the women ran to tell me he had been found dead at Mary’s door.”

“Ruth—she was mad—driven—she didn’t know what she—was
doing,” said Shefford, brokenly.

“She was always a strange girl, more like an Indian than any one I ever
knew. We called her the Sago Lily. I gave her the name. She was so sweet,
lovely, white and gold, like those flowers…. And to think! Oh, it’s
horrible for her! You must save her. If you get her away there never will
be anything come of it. The Mormons will hush it up.”

“Ruth, time is flying,” rejoined Shefford, hurriedly. “I must go back to
Joe. You be ready for us when we come. Wear something loose, easily thrown
off, and don’t forget the long hood.”

“I’ll be ready and watching,” she said. “The sooner the better, I’d say.”

He left her and returned toward camp in the same circling route by which
he had come. The Indian had disappeared and so had his mustang. This
significant fact augmented Shefford’s hurried, thrilling excitement. But
one glance at Joe’s face changed all that to a sudden numbness, a sinking
of his heart.

“What is it?” he queried.

“Look there!” exclaimed the Mormon.

Shefford’s quick eye caught sight of horses and men down the valley. He
saw several Indians and three or four white men. They were making camp.

“Who are they?” demanded Shefford.

“Shadd and some of his gang. Reckon that Piute told the news. By to-morrow
the valley will be full as a horse-wrangler’s corral…. Lucky Nas Ta Bega
got away before that gang rode in. Now things won’t look as queer as they
might have looked. The Indian took a pack of grub, six mustangs, and my
guns. Then there was your rifle in your saddle-sheath. So you’ll be well
heeled in case you come to close quarters. Reckon you can look for a
running fight. For now, as soon as your flight is discovered, Shadd will
hit your trail. He’s in with the Mormons. You know him—what you’ll
have to deal with. But the advantage will all be yours. You can ambush the
trail.”

“We’re in for it. And the sooner we’re off the better,” replied Shefford,
grimly.

“Reckon that’s gospel. Well—come on!”

The Mormon strode off, and Shefford, catching up with him, kept at his
side. Shefford’s mind was full, but Joe’s dark and gloomy face did not
invite communication. They entered the pinon grove and passed the cabin
where the tragedy had been enacted. A tarpaulin had been stretched across
the front porch. Beal was not in sight, nor were any of the women.

“I forgot,” said Shefford, suddenly. “Where am I to meet the Indian?”

“Climb the west wall, back of camp,” replied Joe. “Nas Ta Bega took the
Stonebridge trail. But he’ll leave that, climb the rocks, then hide the
outfit and come back to watch for you. Reckon he’ll see you when you top
the wall.”

They passed on into the heart of the village. Joe tarried at the window of
a cabin, and passed a few remarks to a woman there, and then he inquired
for Mother Smith at her house. When they left here the Mormon gave
Shefford a nudge. Then they separated, Joe going toward the school-house,
while Shefford bent his steps in the direction of Ruth’s home.

Her door opened before he had a chance to knock. He entered. Ruth, white
and resolute, greeted him with a wistful smile.

“All ready?” she asked.

“Yes. Are you?” he replied, low-voiced.

“I’ve only to put on my hood. I think luck favors you. Hester was here and
she said Elder Smith told some one that Mary hadn’t been offered anything
to eat yet. So I’m taking her a little. It’ll be a good excuse for me to
get in the school-house to see her. I can throw off this dress and she can
put it on in a minute. Then the hood. I mustn’t forget to hide her golden
hair. You know how it flies. But this is a big hood…. Well, I’m ready
now. And—this ‘s our last time together.”

“Ruth, what can I say—how can I thank you?”

“I don’t want any thanks. It’ll be something to think of always—to
make me happy…. Only I’d like to feel you—you cared a little.”

The wistful smile was there, a tremor on the sad lips, and a shadow of
soul-hunger in her eyes. Shefford did not misunderstand her. She did not
mean love, although it was a yearning for real love that she mutely
expressed.

“Care! I shall care all my life,” he said, with strong feeling. “I shall
never forget you.”

“It’s not likely I’ll forget you…. Good-by, John!”

Shefford took her in his arms and held her close. “Ruth—good-by!” he
said, huskily.

Then he released her. She adjusted the hood and, taking up a little tray
which held food covered with a napkin, she turned to the door. He opened
it and they went out.

They did not speak another word.

It was not a long walk from Ruth’s home to the school-house, yet if it
were to be measured by Shefford’s emotion the distance would have been
unending. The sacrifice offered by Ruth and Joe would have been noble
under any circumstances had they been Gentiles or persons with no
particular religion, but, considering that they were Mormons, that Ruth
had been a sealed-wife, that Joe had been brought up under the strange,
secret, and binding creed, their action was no less than tremendous in its
import. Shefford took it to mean vastly more than loyalty to him and pity
for Fay Larkin. As Ruth and Joe had arisen to this height, so perhaps
would other young Mormons, have arisen. It needed only the situation, the
climax, to focus these long-insulated, slow-developing and inquiring minds
upon the truth—that one wife, one mother of children, for one man at
one time was a law of nature, love, and righteousness. Shefford felt as if
he were marching with the whole younger generation of Mormons, as if
somehow he had been a humble instrument in the working out of their
destiny, in the awakening that was to eliminate from their religion the
only thing which kept it from being as good for man, and perhaps as true,
as any other religion.

And then suddenly he turned the corner of school-house to encounter Joe
talking with the Mormon Henninger. Elder Smith was not present.

“Why, hello, Ruth!” greeted Joe. “You’ve fetched Mary some dinner. Now
that’s good of you.”

“May I go in?” asked Ruth.

“Reckon so,” replied Henninger, scratching his head. He appeared to be
tractable, and probably was good-natured under pleasant conditions. “She
ought to have somethin’ to eat. An’ nobody ‘pears—to have remembered
that—we’re so set up.”

He unbarred the huge, clumsy door and allowed Ruth to pass in.

“Joe, you can go in if you want,” he said. “But hurry out before Elder
Smith comes back from his dinner.”

Joe mumbled something, gave a husky cough, and then went in.

Shefford experienced great difficulty in presenting to this mild Mormon a
natural and unagitated front. When all his internal structure seemed to be
in a state of turmoil he did not see how it was possible to keep the fact
from showing in his face. So he turned away and took aimless steps here
and there.

“’Pears like we’d hev rain,” observed Henninger. “It’s right warm an’ them
clouds are onseasonable.”

“Yes,” replied Shefford. “Hope so. A little rain would be good for the
grass.”

“Joe tells me Shadd rode in, an’ some of his fellers.”

“So I see. About eight in the party.”

Shefford was gritting his teeth and preparing to endure the ordeal of
controlling his mind and expression when the door opened and Joe stalked
out. He had his sombrero pulled down so that it hid the upper half of his
face. His lips were a shade off healthy color. He stood there with his
back to the door.

“Say, what Mary needs is quiet—to be left alone,” he said. “Ruth
says if she rests, sleeps a little, she won’t get fever…. Henninger,
don’t let anybody disturb her till night.”

“All right, Joe,” replied the Mormon. “An’ I take it good of Ruth an’ you
to concern yourselves.”

A slight tap on the inside of the door sent Shefford’s pulses to
throbbing. Joe opened it with a strong and vigorous sweep that meant more
than the mere action.

“Ruth—reckon you didn’t stay long,” he said, and his voice rang
clear. “Sure you feel sick and weak. Why, seeing her flustered even me!”

A slender, dark-garbed woman wearing a long black hood stepped uncertainly
out. She appeared to be Ruth. Shefford’s heart stood still because she
looked so like Ruth. But she did not step steadily, she seemed dazed, she
did not raise the hooded head.

“Go home,” said Joe, and his voice rang a little louder. “Take her home,
Shefford. Or, better, walk her round some. She’s faintish …. And see
here, Henninger—”

Shefford led the girl away with a hand in apparent carelessness on her
arm. After a few rods she walked with a freer step and then a swifter. He
found it necessary to make that hold on her arm a real one, so as to keep
her from walking too fast. No one, however, appeared to observe them. When
they passed Ruth’s house then Shefford began to lose his fear that this
was not Fay Larkin. He was far from being calm or clear-sighted. He
thought he recognized that free step; nevertheless, he could not make
sure. When they passed under the trees, crossed the brook, and turned down
along the west wall, then doubt ceased in Shefford’s mind. He knew this
was not Ruth. Still, so strange was his agitation, so keen his suspense,
that he needed confirmation of ear, of eye. He wanted to hear her voice,
to see her face. Yet just as strangely there was a twist of feeling, a
reluctance, a sadness that kept off the moment.

They reached the low, slow-swelling slant of wall and started to ascend.
How impossible not to recognize Fay Larkin now in that swift grace and
skill on the steep wall! Still, though he knew her, he perversely clung to
the unreality of the moment. But when a long braid of dead-gold hair
tumbled from under the hood, then his heart leaped. That identified Fay
Larkin. He had freed her. He was taking her away. Then a sadness
embittered his joy.

As always before, she distanced him in the ascent to the top. She went on
without looking back. But Shefford had an irresistible desire to took
again and the last time at this valley where he had suffered and loved so
much.

XVI. SURPRISE VALLEY

From the summit of the wall the plateau waved away in red and yellow
ridges, with here and there little valleys green with cedar and pinon.

Upon one of these ridges, silhouetted against the sky, appeared the
stalking figure of the Indian. He had espied the fugitives. He disappeared
in a niche, and presently came again into view round a corner of cliff.
Here he waited, and soon Shefford and Fay joined him.

“Bi Nai, it is well,” he said.

Shefford eagerly asked for the horses, and Nas Ta Bega silently pointed
down the niche, which was evidently an opening into one of the shallow
canyon. Then he led the way, walking swiftly. It was Shefford, and not
Fay, who had difficulty in keeping close to him. This speed caused
Shefford to become more alive to the business, instead of the feeling, of
the flight. The Indian entered a crack between low cliffs—a very
narrow canyon full of rocks and clumps of cedars—and in a half-hour
or less he came to where the mustangs were halted among some cedars. Three
of the mustangs, including Nack-yal, were saddled; one bore a small pack,
and the remaining two had blankets strapped on their backs.

“Fay, can you ride in that long skirt?” asked Shefford. How strange it
seemed that his first words to her were practical when all his impassioned
thought had been only mute! But the instant he spoke he experienced a
relief, a relaxation.

“I’ll take it off,” replied Fay, just as practically. And in a twinkling
she slipped out of both waist and skirt. She had worn them over the short
white-flannel dress with which Shefford had grown familiar.

As Nack-yal appeared to be the safest mustang for her to ride, Shefford
helped her upon him and then attended to the stirrups. When he had
adjusted them to the proper length he drew the bridle over Nack-yal’s head
and, upon handing it to her, found himself suddenly looking into her face.
She had taken off the hood, too. The instant there eyes met he realized
that she was strangely afraid to meet his glance, as he was to meet hers.
That seemed natural. But her face was flushed and there were unmistakable
signs upon it of growing excitement, of mounting happiness. Save for that
fugitive glance she would have been the Fay Larkin of yesterday. How he
had expected her to look he did not know, but it was not like this. And
never had he felt her strange quality of simplicity so powerfully.

“Have you ever been here—through this little canyon?” he asked.

“Oh yes, lots of times.”

“You’ll be able to lead us to Surprise Valley, you think?”

“I know it. I shall see Uncle Jim and Mother Jane before sunset!”

“I hope—you do,” he replied, a little shakily. “Perhaps we’d better
not tell them of the—the—about what happened last night.”

Her beautiful, grave, and troubled glance returned to meet his, and he
received a shock that he considered was amaze. And after more swift
consideration he believed he was amazed because that look, instead of
betraying fear or gloom or any haunting shadow of darkness, betrayed
apprehension for him—grave, sweet, troubled love for him. She was
not thinking of herself at all—of what he might think of her, of a
possible gulf between them, of a vast and terrible change in the relation
of soul to soul. He experienced a profound gladness. Though he could not
understand her, he was happy that the horror of Waggoner’s death had
escaped her. He loved her, he meant to give his life to her, and right
then and there he accepted the burden of her deed and meant to bear it
without ever letting her know of the shadow between them.

“Fay, we’ll forget—what’s behind us,” he said. “Now to find Surprise
Valley. Lead on. Nack-yal is gentle. Pull him the way you want to go.
We’ll follow.”

Shefford mounted the other saddled mustang, and they set off, Fay in
advance. Presently they rode out of this canyon up to level cedar-patched,
solid rock, and here Fay turned straight west. Evidently she had been over
the ground before. The heights to which he had climbed with her were up to
the left, great slopes and looming promontories. And the course she chose
was as level and easy as any he could have picked out in that direction.

When a mile or more of this up-and-down travel had been traversed Fay
halted and appeared to be at fault. The plateau was losing its rounded,
smooth, wavy characteristics, and to the west grew bolder, more rugged,
more cut up into low crags and buttes. After a long, sweeping glance Fay
headed straight for this rougher country. Thereafter from time to time she
repeated this action.

“Fay, how do you know you’re going in the right direction?” asked
Shefford, anxiously.

“I never forget any ground I’ve been over. I keep my eyes close ahead. All
that seems strange to me is the wrong way. What I’ve seen, before must be
the right way, because I saw it when they brought me from Surprise
Valley.”

Shefford had to acknowledge that she was following an Indian’s instinct
for ground he had once covered.

Still Shefford began to worry, and finally dropped back to question Nas Ta
Bega.

“Bi Nai, she has the eye of a Navajo,” replied the Indian. “Look!
Iron-shod horses have passed here. See the marks in the stone?”

Shefford indeed made out faint cut tracks that would have escaped his own
sight. They had been made long ago, but they were unmistakable.

“She’s following the trail by memory—she must remember the stones,
trees, sage, cactus,” said Shefford in surprise.

“Pictures in her mind,” replied the Indian.

Thereafter the farther she progressed the less at fault she appeared and
the faster she traveled. She made several miles an hour, and about the
middle of the afternoon entered upon the more broken region of the
plateau. View became restricted. Low walls, and ruined cliffs of red rock
with cedars at their base, and gullies growing into canyon and canyon
opening into larger ones—these were passed and crossed and climbed
and rimmed in travel that grew more difficult as the going became wilder.
Then there was a steady ascent, up and up all the time, though not steep,
until another level, green with cedar and pinon, was reached.

It reminded Shefford of the forest near the mouth of the Sagi. It was so
dense he could not see far ahead of Fay, and often he lost sight of her
entirely. Presently he rode out of the forest into a strip of purple sage.
It ended abruptly, and above that abrupt line, seemingly far away, rose a
long, red wall. Instantly he recognized that to be the opposite wall of a
canyon which as yet he could not see.

Fay was acting strangely and he hurried forward. She slipped off Nack-yal
and fell, sprang up and ran wildly, to stand upon a promontory, her arms
uplifted, her hair a mass of moving gold in the wind, her attitude one of
wild and eloquent significance.

Shefford ran, too, and as he ran the red wall in his eager sight seemed to
enlarge downward, deeper and deeper, and then it merged into a strip of
green.

Suddenly beneath him yawned a red-walled gulf, a deceiving gulf seen
through transparent haze, a softly shining green-and-white valley,
strange, wild, beautiful, like a picture in his memory.

“Surprise Valley!” he cried, in wondering recognition.

Fay Larkin waved her arms as if they were wings to carry her swiftly
downward, and her plaintive cry fitted the wildness of her manner and the
lonely height where she leaned.

Shefford drew her back from the rim.

“Fay, we are here,” he said. “I recognize the valley. I miss only one
thing—the arch of stone.”

His words seemed to recall her to reality.

“The arch? That fell when the wall slipped, in the great avalanche. See!
There is the place. We can get down there. Oh, let us hurry!”

The Indian reached the rim and his falcon gaze swept the valley. “Ugh!” he
exclaimed. He, too, recognized the valley that he had vainly sought for
half a year.

“Bring the lassos,” said Shefford.

With Fay leading, they followed the rim toward the head of the valley.
Here the wall had caved in, and there was a slope of jumbled rock a
thousand feet wide and more than that in depth. It was easy to descend
because there were so many rocks waist-high that afforded a handhold.
Shefford marked, however, that Fay never took advantage of these. More
than once he paused to watch her. Swiftly she went down; she stepped from
rock to rock; lightly she crossed cracks and pits; she ran along the sharp
and broken edge of a long ledge; she poised on a pointed stone and,
sure-footed as a mountain-sheep, she sprang to another that had scarce
surface for a foothold; her moccasins flashed, seemed to hold wondrously
on any angle; and when a rock tipped or slipped with her she leaped to a
surer stand. Shefford watched her performance, so swift, agile, so
perfectly balanced, showing such wonderful accord between eye and foot;
and then when he swept his gaze down upon that wild valley where she had
roamed alone for twelve years he marveled no more.

The farther down he got the greater became the size of rocks, until he
found himself amid huge pieces of cliff as large as houses. He lost sight
of Fay entirely, and he anxiously threaded a narrow, winding, descending
way between the broken masses. Finally he came out upon flat rock again.
Fay stood on another rim, looking down. He saw that the slide had moved
far out into the valley, and the lower part of it consisted of great
sections of wall. In fact, the base of the great wall had just moved out
with the avalanche, and this much of it held its vertical position.
Looking upward, Shefford was astounded and thrilled to see how far he had
descended, how the walls leaned like a great, wide, curving, continuous
rim of mountain.

“Here! Here!” called Fay. “Here’s where they got down—where they
brought me up. Here are the sticks they used. They stuck them in this
crack, down to that ledge.”

Shefford ran to her side and looked down. There was a narrow split in this
section of wall and it was perhaps sixty feet in depth. The floor of rock
below led out in a ledge, with a sheer drop to the valley level.

As Shefford gazed, pondering on a way to descend lower, the Indian reached
his side. He had no sooner looked than he proceeded to act. Selecting one
of the sticks, which were strong pieces of cedar, well hewn and trimmed,
he jammed it between the walls of the crack till it stuck fast. Then
sitting astride this one he jammed in another some three feet below. When
he got down upon that one it was necessary for Shefford to drop him a
third stick. In a comparatively short time the Indian reached the ledge
below. Then he called for the lassos. Shefford threw them down. His next
move was an attempt to assist Fay, but she slipped out of his grasp and
descended the ladder with a swiftness that made him hold his breath.
Still, when his turn came, her spirit so governed him that he went down as
swiftly, and even leaped sheer the last ten feet.

Nas Ta Bega and Fay were leaning over the ledge.

“Here’s the place,” she said, excitedly. “Let me down on the rope.”

It took two thirty-foot lassos tied together to reach the floor of the
valley. Shefford folded his vest, put it round Fay, and slipped a loop of
the lasso under her arms. Then he and Nas Ta Bega lowered her to the grass
below. Fay, throwing off the loop, bounded away like a wild creature,
uttering the strangest cries he had ever heard, and she disappeared along
the wall.

“I’ll go down,” said Shefford to the Indian. “You stay here to help pull
us up.”

Hand over hand Shefford descended, and when his feet touched the grass he
experienced a shock of the most singular exultation.

“In Surprise Valley!” he breathed, softly. The dream that had come to him
with his friend’s story, the years of waiting, wondering, and then the
long, fruitless, hopeless search in the desert uplands—these were in
his mind as he turned along the wall where Fay had disappeared. He faced a
wide terrace, green with grass and moss and starry with strange white
flowers, and dark-foliaged, spear-pointed spruce-trees. Below the terrace
sloped a bench covered with thick copse, and this merged into a forest of
dwarf oaks, and beyond that was a beautiful strip of white aspens, their
leaves quivering in the stillness. The air was close, sweet, warm,
fragrant, and remarkably dry. It reminded him of the air he had smelled in
dry caves under cliffs. He reached a point from where he saw a meadow
dotted with red-and-white-spotted cattle and little black burros. There
were many of them. And he remembered with a start the agony of toil and
peril Venters had endured bringing the progenitors of this stock into the
valley. What a strange, wild, beautiful story it all was! But a story
connected with this valley could not have been otherwise.

Beyond the meadow, on the other side of the valley, extended the forest,
and that ended in the rising bench of thicket, which gave place to green
slope and mossy terrace of sharp-tipped spruces—and all this led the
eye irresistibly up to the red wall where a vast, dark, wonderful cavern
yawned, with its rust-colored streaks of stain on the wall, and the queer
little houses of the cliff-dwellers, with their black, vacant, silent
windows speaking so weirdly of the unknown past.

Shefford passed a place where the ground had been cultivated, but not as
recently as the last six months. There was a scant shock of corn and many
meager standing stalks. He became aware of a low, whining hum and a
fragrance overpowering in its sweetness. And there round another corner of
wall he came upon an orchard all pink and white in blossom and melodious
with the buzz and hum of innumerable bees.

He crossed a little stream that had been dammed, went along a pond, down
beside an irrigation-ditch that furnished water to orchard and vineyard,
and from there he strode into a beautiful cove between two jutting corners
of red wall. It was level and green and the spruces stood gracefully
everywhere. Beyond their dark trunks he saw caves in the wall.

Suddenly the fragrance of blossom was overwhelmed by the stronger
fragrance of smoke from a wood fire. Swiftly he strode under the spruces.
Quail fluttered before him as tame as chickens. Big gray rabbits scarcely
moved out of his way. The branches above him were full of mockingbirds.
And then—there before him stood three figures.

Fay Larkin was held close to the side of a magnificent woman, barbarously
clad in garments made of skins and pieces of blanket. Her face worked in
noble emotion. Shefford seemed to see the ghost of that fair beauty
Venters had said was Jane Withersteen’s. Her hair was gray. Near her stood
a lean, stoop-shouldered man whose long hair was perfectly white. His
gaunt face was bare of beard. It had strange, sloping, sad lines. And he
was staring with mild, surprised eyes.

The moment held Shefford mute till sight of Fay Larkin’s tear-wet face
broke the spell. He leaped forward and his strong hands reached for the
woman and the man.

“Jane Withersteen!… Lassiter! I have found you!”

“Oh, sir, who are you?” she cried, with rich and deep and quivering voice.
“This child came running—screaming. She could not speak. We thought
she had gone mad—and escaped to come back to us.”

“I am John Shefford,” he replied, swiftly. “I am a friend of Bern Venters—of
his wife Bess. I learned your story. I came west. I’ve searched a year. I
found Fay. And we’ve come to take you away.”

“You found Fay? But that masked Mormon who forced her to sacrifice herself
to save us!… What of him? It’s not been so many long years—I
remember what my father was—and Dyer and Tull—all those cruel
churchmen.”

“Waggoner is dead,” replied Shefford.

“Dead? She is free! Oh, what—how did he die?”

“He was killed.”

“Who did it?”

“That’s no matter,” replied Shefford, stonily, and he met her gaze with
steady eyes. “He’s out of the way. Fay was never his wife. Fay’s free.
We’ve come to take you out of the country. We must hurry. We’ll be tracked—pursued.
But we’ve horses and an Indian guide. We’ll get away…. I think it better
to leave here at once. There’s no telling how soon we’ll be hunted. Get
what things you want to take with you.”

“Oh—yes—Mother Jane, let us hurry!” cried Fay. “I’m so full—I
can’t talk—my heart hurts so!”

Jane Withersteen’s face shone with an exceedingly radiant light, and a
glory blended with a terrible fear in her eyes.

“Fay! my little Fay!”

Lassiter had stood there with his mild, clear blue eyes upon Shefford.

“I shore am glad to see you—all,” he drawled, and extended his hand
as if the meeting were casual. “What’d you say your name was?”

Shefford repeated it as he met the proffered hand.

“How’s Bern an’ Bess?” Lassiter inquired.

“They were well, prosperous, happy when last I saw them…. They had a
baby.”

“Now ain’t thet fine?… Jane, did you hear? Bess has a baby. An’, Jane,
didn’t I always say Bern would come back to get us out? Shore it’s just
the same.”

How cool, easy, slow, and mild this Lassiter seemed! Had the man grown
old, Shefford wondered? The past to him manifestly was only yesterday, and
the danger of the present was as nothing. Looking in Lassiter’s face,
Shefford was baffled. If he had not remembered the greatness of this old
gun-man he might have believed that the lonely years in the valley had
unbalanced his mind. In an hour like this coolness seemed inexplicable—assuredly
would have been impossible in an ordinary man. Yet what hid behind that
drawling coolness? What was the meaning of those long, sloping, shadowy
lines of the face? What spirit lay in the deep, mild, clear eyes? Shefford
experienced a sudden check to what had been his first growing impression
of a drifting, broken old man.

“Lassiter, pack what little you can carry—mustn’t be much—and
we’ll get out of here,” said Shefford.

“I shore will. Reckon I ain’t a-goin’ to need a pack-train. We saved the
clothes we wore in here. Jane never thought it no use. But I figgered we
might need them some day. They won’t be stylish, but I reckon they’ll do
better ‘n these skins. An’ there’s an old coat thet was Venters’s.”

The mild, dreamy look became intensified in Lassiter’s eyes.

“Did Venters have any hosses when you knowed him?” he asked.

“He had a farm full of horses,” replied Shefford, with a smile. “And there
were two blacks—the grandest horses I ever saw. Black Star and
Night! You remember, Lassiter?”

“Shore. I was wonderin’ if he got the blacks out. They must be growin’ old
by now…. Grand hosses, they was. But Jane had another hoss, a big devil
of a sorrel. His name was Wrangle. Did Venters ever tell you about him—an’
thet race with Jerry Card?”

“A hundred times!” replied Shefford.

“Wrangle run the blacks off their legs. But Jane never would believe thet.
An’ I couldn’t change her all these years…. Reckon mebbe we’ll get to
see them blacks?”

“Indeed, I hope—I believe you will,” replied Shefford, feelingly.

“Shore won’t thet be fine. Jane, did you hear? Black Star an’ Night are
livin’ an’ we’ll get to see them.”

But Jane Withersteen only clasped Fay in her arms, and looked at Lassiter
with wet and glistening eyes.

Shefford told them to hurry and come to the cliff where the ascent from
the valley was to be made. He thought best to leave them alone to make
their preparations and bid farewell to the cavern home they had known for
so long.

Then he strolled back along the wall, loitering here to gaze into a cave,
and there to study crude red paintings in the nooks. And sometimes he
halted thoughtfully and did not see anything. At length he rounded a
corner of cliff to espy Nas Ta Bega sitting upon the ledge, reposeful and
watchful as usual. Shefford told the Indian they would be climbing out
soon, and then he sat down to wait and let his gaze rove over the valley.

He might have sat there a long while, so sad and reflective and wondering
was his thought, but it seemed a very short time till Fay came in sight
with her free, swift grace, and Lassiter and Jane some distance behind.
Jane carried a small bundle and Lassiter had a sack over his shoulder that
appeared no inconsiderable burden.

“Them beans shore is heavy,” he drawled, as he deposited the sack upon the
ground.

Shefford curiously took hold of the sack and was amazed to find that a
second and hard muscular effort was required to lift it.

“Beans?” he queried.

“Shore,” replied Lassiter.

“That’s the heaviest sack of beans I ever saw. Why—it’s not possible
it can be…. Lassiter, we’ve a long, rough trail. We’ve got to pack light—”

“Wal, I ain’t a-goin’ to leave this here sack behind. Reckon I’ve been all
of twelve years in fillin’ it,” he declared, mildly.

Shefford could only stare at him.

“Fay may need them beans,” went on Lassiter.

“Why?”

“Because they’re gold.”

“Gold!” ejaculated Shefford.

“Shore. An’ they represent some work. Twelve years of diggin’ an’
washin’!”

Shefford laughed constrainedly. “Well, Lassiter, that alters the case
considerably. A sack of gold nuggets or grains, or beans, as you call
them, certainly must not be left behind…. Come, now, we’ll tackle this
climbing job.”

He called up to the Indian and, grasping the rope, began to walk up the
first slant, and then by dint of hand-over-hand effort and climbing with
knees and feet he succeeded, with Nas Ta Bega’s help, in making the ledge.
Then he let down the rope to haul up the sack and bundle. That done, he
directed Fay to fasten the noose round her as he had fixed it before. When
she had complied he called to her to hold herself out from the wall while
he and Nas Ta Bega hauled her up.

“Hold the rope tight,” replied Fay, “I’ll walk up.”

And to Shefford’s amaze and admiration, she virtually walked up that
almost perpendicular wall by slipping her hands along the rope and
stepping as she pulled herself up. There, if never before, he saw the
fruit of her years of experience on steep slopes. Only such experience
could have made the feat possible.

Jane had to be hauled up, and the task was a painful one for her.
Lassiter’s turn came then, and he showed more strength and agility than
Shefford had supposed him capable of. From the ledge they turned their
attention to the narrow crack with its ladder of sticks. Fay had already
ascended and now hung over the rim, her white face and golden hair framed
vividly in the narrow stream of blue sky above.

“Mother Jane! Uncle Jim! You are so slow,” she called.

“Wal, Fay, we haven’t been second cousins to a canyon squirrel all these
years,” replied Lassiter.

This upper half of the climb bid fair to be as difficult for Jane, if not
so painful, as the lower. It was necessary for the Indian to go up and
drop the rope, which was looped around her, and then, with him pulling
from above and Shefford assisting Jane as she climbed, she was finally
gotten up without mishap. When Lassiter reached the level they rested a
little while and then faced the great slide of jumbled rocks. Fay led the
way, light, supple, tireless, and Shefford never ceased looking at her. At
last they surmounted the long slope and, winding along the rim, reached
the point where Fay had led out of the cedars.

Nas Ta Bega, then, was the one to whom Shefford looked for every decision
or action of the immediate future. The Indian said he had seen a pool of
water in a rocky hole, that the day was spent, that here was a little
grass for the mustangs, and it would be well to camp right there. So while
Nas Ta Bega attended to the mustangs Shefford set about such preparations
for camp and supper as their light pack afforded. The question of beds was
easily answered, for the mats of soft needles under pinon and cedar would
be comfortable places to sleep.

When Shefford felt free again the sun was setting. Lassiter and Jane were
walking under the trees. The Indian had returned to camp. But Fay was
missing. Shefford imagined he knew where to find her, and upon going to
the edge of the forest he saw her sitting on the promontory. He approached
her, drawn in spite of a feeling that perhaps he ought to stay away.

“Fay, would you rather be alone?” he asked.

His voice startled her.

“I want you,” she replied, and held out her hand.

Taking it in his own, he sat beside her.

The red sun was at their backs. Surprise Valley lay hazy, dusky, shadowy
beneath them. The opposite wall seemed fired by crimson flame, save far
down at its base, which the sun no longer touched. And the dark line of
red slowly rose, encroaching upon the bright crimson. Changing,
transparent, yet dusky veils seemed to float between the walls; long, red
rays, where the sun shone through notch or crack in the rim, split the
darker spaces; deep down at the floor the forest darkened, the strip of
aspen paled, the meadow turned gray; and all under the shelves and in the
great caverns a purple gloom deepened. Then the sun set. And swiftly
twilight was there below while day lingered above. On the opposite wall
the fire died and the stone grew cold.

A canyon night-hawk voiced his lonely, weird, and melancholy cry, and it
seemed to pierce and mark the silence.

A pale star, peering out of a sky that had begun to turn blue, marked the
end of twilight. And all the purple shadows moved and hovered and changed
till, softly and mysteriously, they embraced black night.

Beautiful, wild, strange, silent Surprise Valley! Shefford saw it before
and beneath him, a dark abyss now, the abode of loneliness. He imagined
faintly what was in Fay Larkin’s heart. For the last time she had seen the
sun set there and night come with its dead silence and sweet mystery and
phantom shadows, its velvet blue sky and white trains of stars.

He, who had dreamed and longed and searched, found that the hour had been
incalculable for him in its import.

XVII. THE TRAIL TO NONNEZOSHE

When Shefford awoke next morning and sat up on his bed of pinon boughs the
dawn had broken cold with a ruddy gold brightness under the trees. Nas Ta
Bega and Lassiter were busy around a camp-fire; the mustangs were haltered
near by; Jane Withersteen combed out her long, tangled tresses with a
crude wooden comb; and Fay Larkin was not in sight. As she had been
missing from the group at sunset, so she was now at sunrise. Shefford went
out to take his last look at Surprise Valley.

On the evening before the valley had been a place of dusky red veils and
purple shadows, and now it was pink-walled, clear and rosy and green and
white, with wonderful shafts of gold slanting down from the notched
eastern rim. Fay stood on the promontory, and Shefford did not break the
spell of her silent farewell to her wild home. A strange emotion abided
with him and he knew he would always, all his life, regret leaving
Surprise Valley.

Then the Indian called.

“Come, Fay,” said Shefford, gently.

And she turned away with dark, haunted eyes and a white, still face.

The somber Indian gave a silent gesture for Shefford to make haste. While
they had breakfast the mustangs were saddled and packed. And soon all was
in readiness for the flight. Fay was given Nack-yal, Jane the saddled
horse Shefford had ridden, and Lassiter the Indian’s roan. Shefford and
Nas Ta Bega were to ride the blanketed mustangs, and the sixth and last
one bore the pack. Nas Ta Bega set off, leading this horse; the others of
the party lined in behind, with Shefford at the rear.

Nas Ta Bega led at a brisk trot, and sometimes, on level stretches of
ground, at an easy canter; and Shefford had a grim realization of what
this flight was going to be for these three fugitives, now so unaccustomed
to riding. Jane and Lassiter, however, needed no watching, and showed they
had never forgotten how to manage a horse. The Indian back-trailed
yesterday’s path for an hour, then headed west to the left, and entered a
low pass. All parts of this plateau country looked alike, and Shefford was
at some pains to tell the difference of this strange ground from that
which he had been over. In another hour they got out of the rugged, broken
rock to the wind-worn and smooth, shallow canyon. Shefford calculated that
they were coming to the end of the plateau. The low walls slanted lower;
the canyon made a turn; Nas Ta Bega disappeared; and then the others of
the party. When Shefford turned the corner of wall he saw a short strip of
bare, rocky ground with only sky beyond. The Indian and his followers had
halted in a group. Shefford rode to them, halted himself, and in one
sweeping glance realized the meaning of their silent gaze. But immediately
Nas Ta Bega started down; and the mustangs, without word or touch,
followed him. Shefford, however, lingered on the promontory.

His gaze seemed impelled and held by things afar—the great
yellow-and-purple corrugated world of distance, now on a level with his
eyes. He was drawn by the beauty and the grandeur of that scene and
transfixed by the realization that he had dared to venture to find a way
through this vast, wild, and upflung fastness. He kept looking afar,
sweeping the three-quartered circle of horizon till his judgment of
distance was confounded and his sense of proportion dwarfed one moment and
magnified the next. Then he withdrew his fascinated gaze to adopt the
Indian’s method of studying unlimited spaces in the desert—to look
with slow, contracted eyes from near to far.

His companions had begun to zigzag down a long slope, bare of rock, with
yellow gravel patches showing between the scant strips of green, and here
and there a scrub-cedar. Half a mile down, the slope merged into green
level. But close, keen gaze made out this level to be a rolling plain,
growing darker green, with blue lines of ravines, and thin, undefined
spaces that might be mirage. Miles and miles it swept and relied and
heaved to lose its waves in apparent darker level. A round, red rock stood
isolated, marking the end of the barren plain, and farther on were other
round rocks, all isolated, all of different shape. They resembled huge
grazing cattle. But as Shefford gazed, and his sight gained strength from
steadily holding it to separate features these rocks were strangely
magnified. They grew and grew into mounds, castles, domes, crags—great,
red, wind-carved buttes. One by one they drew his gaze to the wall of
upflung rock. He seemed to see a thousand domes of a thousand shapes and
colors, and among them a thousand blue clefts, each one a little mark in
his sight, yet which he knew was a canyon. So far he gained some idea of
what he saw. But beyond this wide area of curved lines rose another wall,
dwarfing the lower, dark red, horizon—long, magnificent in frowning
boldness, and because of its limitless deceiving surfaces, breaks, and
lines, incomprehensible to the sight of man. Away to the eastward began a
winding, ragged, blue line, looping back upon itself, and then winding
away again, growing wider and bluer. This line was the San Juan canyon.
Where was Joe Lake at that moment? Had he embarked yet on the river—did
that blue line, so faint, so deceiving, hold him and the boat? Almost it
was impossible to believe. Shefford followed the blue line all its length,
a hundred miles, he fancied, down toward the west where it joined a dark,
purple, shadowy cleft. And this was the Grand canyon of the Colorado.
Shefford’s eye swept along with that winding mark, farther and farther to
the west, round to the left, until the cleft, growing larger and coming
closer, losing its deception, was seen to be a wild and winding canyon.
Still farther to the left, as he swung in fascinated gaze, it split the
wonderful wall—a vast plateau now with great red peaks and yellow
mesas. The canyon was full of purple smoke. It turned, it gaped, it lost
itself and showed again in that chaos of a million cliffs. And then
farther on it became again a cleft, a purple line, at last to fail
entirely in deceiving distance.

Shefford imagined there was no scene in all the world to equal that. The
tranquillity of lesser spaces was not here manifest. Sound, movement,
life, seemed to have no fitness here. Ruin was there and desolation and
decay. The meaning of the ages was flung at him, and a man became nothing.
When he had gazed at the San Juan canyon he had been appalled at the
nature of Joe Lake’s Herculean task. He had lost hope, faith. The thing
was not possible. But when Shefford gazed at that sublime and majestic
wilderness, in which the Grand canyon was only a dim line, he strangely
lost his terror and something else came to him from across the shining
spaces. If Nas Ta Bega led them safely down to the river, if Joe Lake met
them at the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco, if they survived the rapids of that
terrible gorge, then Shefford would have to face his soul and the meaning
of this spirit that breathed on the wind.

He urged his mustang to the descent of the slope, and as he went down,
slowly drawing nearer to the other fugitives, his mind alternated between
this strange intimation of faith, this subtle uplift of his spirit, and
the growing gloom and shadow in his love for Fay Larkin. Not that he loved
her less, but more! A possible God hovering near him, like the Indian’s
spirit-step on the trail, made his soul the darker for Fay’s crime, and he
saw with light, with deeper sadness, with sterner truth.

More than once the Indian turned on his mustang to look up the slope and
the light flashed from his dark, somber face. Shefford instinctively
looked back himself, and then realized the unconscious motive of the
action. Deep within him there had been a premonition of certain pursuit,
and the Indian’s reiterated backward glance had at length brought the
feeling upward. Thereafter, as they descended, Shefford gradually added to
his already wrought emotions a mounting anxiety.

No sign of a trail showed where the base of the slope rolled out to meet
the green plain. The earth was gravelly, with dark patches of heavy silt,
almost like cinders; and round, black rocks, flinty and glassy, cracked
away from the hoofs of the mustangs. There was a level bench a mile wide,
then a ravine, and then an ascent, and after that, rounded ridge and
ravine, one after the other, like huge swells of a monstrous sea. Indian
paint-brush vied in its scarlet hue with the deep magenta of cactus. There
was no sage. Soapweed and meager grass and a bunch of cactus here and
there lent the green to that barren; and it was green only at a distance.
Nas Ta Bega kept on a steady, even trot. The sun climbed. The wind rose
and whipped dust from under the mustangs.

Shefford looked back often, and the farther out in the plain he reached
the higher loomed the plateau they had descended; and as he faced ahead
again the lower sank the red-domed and castled horizon to the fore. The
ravines became deeper, with dry rock bottoms, and the ridge-tops sharper,
with outcroppings of yellow, crumbling ledges. Once across the central
depression of that plain a gradual ascent became evident, and the round
rocks grew clearer in sight, began to rise shine and grow. And thereafter
every slope brought them nearer.

The sun was straight overhead and hot when Nas Ta Bega halted the party
under the first lonely scrub-cedar. They all dismounted to stretch their
limbs, and rest the horses. It was not a talkative group, Lassiter’s
comments on the never-ending green plain elicited no response. Jane
Withersteen looked afar with the past in her eyes. Shefford felt Fay’s
wistful glance and could not meet it; indeed, he seemed to want to hide
something from her. The Indian bent a falcon gaze on the distant slope,
and Shefford did not like that intent, searching, steadfast watchfulness.
Suddenly Nas Ta Bega stiffened and whipped the halter he held.

“Ugh!” he exclaimed.

All eyes followed the direction of his dark hand. Puffs of dust rose from
the base of the long slope they had descended; tiny dark specks moved with
the pace of a snail.

“Shadd!” added the Indian.

“I expected it,” said Shefford, darkly, as he rose.

“An’ who’s Shadd?” drawled Lassiter in his cool, slow speech.

Briefly Shefford explained, and then, looking at Nas Ta Bega, he added:

“The hardest-riding outfit in the country! We can’t get away from them.”

Jane Withersteen was silent, but Fay uttered a low cry. Shefford did not
look at either of them. The Indian began swiftly to tighten the
saddle-cinches of his roan, and Shefford did likewise for Nack-yal. Then
Shefford drew his rifle out of the saddle-sheath and Joe Lake’s big guns
from the saddle-bag.

“Here, Lassiter, maybe you haven’t forgotten how to use these,” he said.

The old gun-man started as if he had seen ghosts. His hands grew clawlike
as he reached for the guns. He threw open the cylinders, spilled out the
shells, snapped back the cylinders. Then he went through motions too swift
for Shefford to follow. But Shefford heard the hammers falling so swiftly
they blended their clicks almost in one sound. Lassiter reloaded the guns
with a speed comparable with the other actions. A remarkable
transformation had come over him. He did not seem the same man. The mild
eyes had changed; the long, shadowy, sloping lines were tense cords; and
there was a cold, ashy shade on his face.

“Twelve years!” he muttered to himself. “I dropped them old guns back
there where I rolled the rock…. Twelve years!”

Shefford realized the twelve years were as if they had never been. And he
would rather have had this old gun-man with him than a dozen ordinary men.

The Indian spoke rapidly in Navajo, saying that once in the rocks they
were safe. Then, after another look at the distant dust-puffs, he wheeled
his mustang.

It was doubtful if the party could have kept near him had they been
responsible for the gait of their mounts. The fact was that the way the
Indian called to his mustang or some leadership in the one rode drew the
others to a like trot or climb or canter. For a long time Shefford did not
turn round; he knew what to expect. And when he did turn he was startled
at the gain made by the pursuers. But he was encouraged as well by the
looming, red, rounded peaks seemingly now so close. He could see the dark
splits between the sloping curved walls, the pinon patches in the
amphitheater under the circled walls. That was a wild place they were
approaching, and, once in there, he believed pursuit would be useless.
However, there were miles to go still, and those hard-riding devils behind
made alarming decrease in the intervening distance. Shefford could see the
horses plainly now. How they made the dust fly! He counted up to six—and
then the dust and moving line caused the others to be indistinguishable.

At last only a long, gently rising slope separated the fugitives from that
labyrinthine network of wildly carved rock. But it was the clear air that
made the distance seem short. Mile after mile the mustangs climbed, and
when they were perhaps half-way across that last slope to the rocks the
first horse of the pursuers mounted to the level behind. In a few moments
the whole band was strung out in sight. Nas Ta Bega kept his mustang at a
steady walk, in spite of the gaining pursuers. There came a point,
however, when the Indian, reaching comparatively level ground, put his
mount to a swinging canter. The other mustangs broke into the same gait.

It became a race then, with the couple of miles between fugitives and
pursuers only imperceptibly lessened. Nas Ta Bega had saved his mustangs
and Shadd had ridden his to the limit. Shefford kept looking back,
gripping his rifle, hoping it would not come to a fight, yet slowly losing
that reluctance.

Sage began to show on the slope, and other kinds of brush and cedars
straggled everywhere. The great rocks loomed closer, the red color mixed
with yellow, and the slopes lengthening out, not so steep, yet infinitely
longer than they had seemed at a distance.

Shefford ceased to feel the dry wind in his face. They were already in the
lee of the wall. He could see the rock-squirrels scampering to their
holes. The mustangs valiantly held to the gait, and at last the Indian
disappeared between two rounded comers of cliff. The others were close
behind. Shefford wheeled once more. Shadd and his gang were a mile in the
rear, but coming fast, despite winded horses.

Shefford rode around the wall into a widening space thick with cedars. It
ended in a bare slope of smooth rock. Here the Indian dismounted. When the
others came up with him he told them to lead their horses and follow. Then
he began the ascent of the rock.

It was smooth and hard, though not slippery. There was not a crack.
Shefford did not see a broken piece of stone. Nas Ta Bega climbed straight
up for a while, and then wound around a swell, to turn this way and that,
always going up. Shefford began to see similar mounds of rock all around
him, of every shape that could be called a curve. There were yellow domes
far above, and small red domes far below. Ridges ran from one hill of rock
to another. There were no abrupt breaks, but holes and pits and caves were
everywhere, and occasionally, deep down, an amphitheater green with cedar
and pinon. The Indian appeared to have a clear idea of where he wanted to
go, though there was no vestige of a trail on those bare slopes. At length
Shefford was high enough to see back upon the plain, but the pursuers were
no longer in sight.

Nas Ta Bega led to the top of that wall, only to disclose to his followers
another and a higher wall beyond, with a ridged, bare, wild, and scalloped
depression between. Here footing began to be precarious for both man and
beast. When the ascent of the second wall began it was necessary to zigzag
up, slowly and carefully, taking advantage of every level bulge or
depression. They must have consumed half an hour mounting this slope to
the summit. Once there, Shefford drew a sharp breath with both backward
and forward glances. Shadd and his gang, in single file, showed dark upon
the bare stone ridge behind. And to the fore there twisted and dropped and
curved the most dangerous slopes Shefford had ever seen. The fugitives had
reached the height of stone wall, of the divide, and many of the drops
upon this side were perpendicular and too steep to see the bottom.

Nas Ta Bega led along the ridge-top and then started down, following the
waves in the rock. He came out upon a round promontory from which there
could not have been any turning of a horse. The long slant leading down
was at an angle Shefford declared impossible for the animals. Yet the
Indian started down. His mustang needed urging, but at last edged upon the
steep descent. Shefford and the others had to hold back and wait. It was
thrilling to see the intelligent mustang. He did not step. He slid his
fore hoofs a few inches at a time and kept directly behind the Indian. If
he fell he would knock Nas Ta Bega off his feet and they would both roll
down together. There was no doubt in Shefford’s mind that the mustang knew
this as well as the Indian. Foot by foot they worked down to a swelling
bulge, and here Nas Ta Bega left his mustang and came back for the
pack-horse. It was even more difficult to get this beast down. Then the
Indian called for Lassiter and Jane and Fay to come down. Shefford began
to keep a sharp lookout behind and above, and did not see how the three
fared on the slope, but evidently there was no mishap. Nas Ta Bega mounted
the slope again, and at the moment sight of Shadd’s dark bays silhouetted
against the sky caused Shefford to call out:

“We’ve got to hurry!”

The Indian led one mustang and called to the others. Shefford stepped
close behind. They went down in single file, inch by inch, foot by foot,
and safely reached the comparative level below.

“Shadd’s gang are riding their horses up and down these walls!” exclaimed
Shefford.

“Shore,” replied Lassiter.

Both the women were silent.

Nas Ta Bega led the way swiftly to the right. He rounded a huge dome,
climbed a low, rolling ridge, descended and ascended, and came out upon
the rim of a steep-walled amphitheater. Along the rim was a yard-wide
level, with the chasm to the left and steep slope to the right. There was
no time to flinch at the danger, when an even greater danger menaced from
the rear. Nas Ta Bega led, and his mustang kept at his heels. One misstep
would have plunged the animal to his death. But he was surefooted and his
confidence helped the others. At the apex of the curve the only course led
away from the rim, and here there was no level. Four of the mustangs
slipped and slid down the smooth rock until they stopped in a shallow
depression. It cost time to get them out, to straighten pack and saddles.
Shefford thought he heard a yell in the rear, but he could not see
anything of the gang.

They rounded this precipice only to face a worse one. Shefford’s nerve was
sorely tried when he saw steep slants everywhere, all apparently leading
down into chasms, and no place a man, let alone a horse, could put a foot
with safety. Nevertheless the imperturbable Indian never slacked his pace.
Always he appeared to find a way, and he never had to turn back. His
winding course, however, did not now cover much distance in a straight
line, and herein lay the greatest peril. Any moment Shadd and his men
might come within range.

Upon a particularly tedious and dangerous side of rocky hill the fugitives
lost so much time that Shefford grew exceedingly alarmed. Still, they
accomplished it without accident, and their pursuers did not heave in
sight. Perhaps they were having trouble in a bad place.

The afternoon was waning. The red sun hung low above the yellow mesa to
the left, and there was a perceptible shading of light.

At last Nas Ta Bega came to a place that halted him. It did not look so
bad as places they had successfully passed. Yet upon closer study Shefford
did not see how they were to get around the neck of the gully at their
feet. Presently the Indian put the bridle over the head of his mustang and
left him free. He did likewise for two more mustangs, while Lassiter and
Shefford rendered a like service to theirs. Then the Indian started down,
with his mustang following him. The pack-animal came next, then Fay and
Nack-yal, then Lassiter and his mount, with Jane and hers next, and
Shefford last. They followed the Indian, picking their steps swiftly,
looking nowhere except at the stone under their feet. The right side of
the chasm was rimmed, the curve at the head crossed, and then the real
peril of this trap had to be faced. It was a narrow slant of ledge,
doubling back parallel with the course already traversed.

A sharp warning cry from Nas Ta Bega scarcely prepared Shefford for hoarse
yells, and then a rattling rifle-volley from the top of the slope
opposite. Bullets thudded on the cliff, whipped up red dust, and spanged
and droned away.

Fay Larkin screamed and staggered back against the wall. Nack-yal was hit,
and with frightened snort he reared, pawed the air, and came down,
pounding the stone. The mustang behind him went to his knees, sank with
his head over the rim, and, slipping off, plunged into the depths. In an
instant a dull crash came up.

For a moment there was imminent peril for the horses, more in the yawning
hole than in the spanging of badly aimed bullets. Lassiter drew Jane up a
little slope out of the way of the frightened mustangs, and Shefford,
risking his neck, rushed to Fay. She was holding her arm, which was
bleeding. Unheeding the rain of bullets, he half carried, half dragged her
along the slope of the low bluff, where he hid behind a corner till the
Indian drove the mustangs round it. Shefford’s swift fingers were wet and
red with the blood from Fay’s arm when he had bound the wound with his
scarf. Lassiter had gotten around with Jane and was calling Shefford to
hurry.

It had been Shefford’s idea to halt there and fight. But he did not want
to send Fay on alone, so he hurried ahead with her. The Indian had the
horses going fast on a long level, overhung by bulging wall. Lassiter and
Jane were looking back. Shefford, becoming aware of a steep slope to his
left, looked down to see a narrow chasm and great crevices in the cliffs,
with bunches of cedars here and there.

Presently Nas Ta Bega disappeared with the mustangs. He had evidently
turned off to go down behind the split cliffs. Shefford and Fay caught up
with Lassiter and Jane, and, panting, hurrying, looking backward and then
forward, they kept on, as best they could, in the Indian’s course.
Shefford made sure they had lost him, when he appeared down to the left.
Then they all ran to catch up with him. They went around the chasm, and
then through one of the narrow cracks to come out upon the rim, among
cedars. Here the Indian waited for them. He pointed down another long
swell of naked stone to a narrow green split which was evidently different
from all these curved pits and holes and abysses, for this one had
straight walls and wound away out of sight. It was the head of a canyon.

“Nonnezoshe Boco!” said the Indian.

“Nas Ta Bega, go on!” replied Shefford. “When Shadd comes out on that
slope above he can’t see you—where you go down. Hurry on with the
horses and women. Lassiter, you go with them. And if Shadd passes me and
comes up with you—do your best…. I’m going to ambush that Piute
and his gang!”

“Shore you’ve picked out a good place,” replied Lassiter.

In another moment Shefford was alone. He heard the light, soft pat and
slide of the hoofs of the mustangs as they went down. Presently that sound
ceased.

He looked at the red stain on his hands—from the blood of the girl
he loved. And he had to stifle a terrible wrath that shook his frame. In
regard to Shadd’s pursuit, it had not been blood that he had feared, but
capture for Fay. He and Nas Ta Bega might have expected a shot if they
resisted, but to wound that unfortunate girl—it made a tiger out of
him. When he had stilled the emotions that weakened and shook him and
reached cold and implacable control of himself, he crawled under the
cedars to the rim and, well hidden, he watched and waited.

Shadd appeared to be slow for the first time since he had been sighted.
With keen eyes Shefford watched the corner where he and the others had
escaped from that murderous volley. But Shadd did not come.

The sun had lost its warmth and was tipping the lofty mesa to his right.
Soon twilight would make travel on those walls more perilous and darkness
would make it impossible. Shadd must hurry or abandon the pursuit for that
day. Shefford found himself grimly hopeful.

Suddenly he heard the click of hoofs. It came, faint yet clear, on the
still air. He glued his sight upon that corner where he expected the
pursuers to appear. More cracks of hoofs pierced his ear, clearer and
sharper this time. Presently he gathered that they could not possibly come
from beyond the corner he was watching. So he looked far to the left of
that place, seeing no one, then far to the right. Out over a bulge of
stone he caught sight of the bobbing head of a horse—then another—and
still another.

He was astounded. Shadd had gone below that place where the attack had
been made and he had come up this steep slope. More horses appeared—to
the number of eight. Shefford easily recognized a low, broad, squat rider
to be Shadd. Assuredly the Piute did not know this country. Possibly,
however, he had feared an ambush. But Shefford grew convinced that Shadd
had not expected an ambush, or at least did not fear it, and had mistaken
the Indian’s course. Moreover, if he led his gang a few rods farther up
that slope he would do worse than make a mistake—he would be facing
a double peril.

What fearless horsemen these Indians were! Shadd was mounted, as were
three others of his gang. Evidently the white men, the outlaws, were the
ones on foot. Shefford thrilled and his veins stung when he saw these
pursuers come passing what he considered the danger mark. But manifestly
they could not see their danger. Assuredly they were aware of the chasm;
however, the level upon which they were advancing narrowed gradually, and
they could not tell that very soon they could not go any farther nor could
they turn back. The alternative was to climb the slope, and that was a
desperate chance.

They came up, now about on a level with Shefford, and perhaps three
hundred yards distant. He gripped his rifle with a fatal assurance that he
could kill one of them now. Still he waited. Curiosity consumed him
because every foot they advanced heightened their peril. Shefford wondered
if Shadd would have chosen that course if he had not supposed the Navajo
had chosen it first. It was plain that one of the walking Piutes stooped
now and then to examine the rock. He was looking for some faint sign of a
horse track.

Shadd halted within two hundred yards of where Shefford lay hidden. His
keen eye had caught the significance of the narrowing level before he had
reached the end. He pointed and spoke. Shefford heard his voice. The
others replied. They all looked up at the steep slope, down into the chasm
right below them, and across into the cedars. The Piute in the rear
succeeded in turning his horse, went back, and began to circle up the
slope. The others entered into an argument and they became more closely
grouped upon the narrow bench. Their mustangs were lean, wiry, wild,
vicious, and Shefford calculated grimly upon what a stampede might mean in
that position.

Then Shadd turned his mustang up the slope. Like a goat he climbed.
Another Indian in the rear succeeded in pivoting his steed and started
back, apparently to circle round and up. The others of the gang appeared
uncertain. They yelled hoarsely at Shadd, who halted on the steep slant
some twenty paces above them. He spoke and made motions that evidently
meant the climb was easy enough. It looked easy for him. His dark face
flashed red in the rays of the sun.

At this critical moment Shefford decided to fire. He meant to kill Shadd,
hoping if the leader was gone the others would abandon the pursuit. The
rifle wavered a little as he aimed, then grew still. He fired. Shadd never
flinched. But the fiery mustang, perhaps wounded, certainly terrified,
plunged down with piercing, horrid scream. Shadd fell under him. Shrill
yells rent the air. Like a thunderbolt the sliding horse was upon men and
animals below.

A heavy shock, wild snorts, upflinging heads and hoofs, a terrible
tramping, thudding, shrieking melee, then a brown, twisting, tangled mass
shot down the slant over the rim!

Shefford dazedly thought he saw men running. He did see plunging horses.
One slipped, fell, rolled, and went into the chasm.

Then up from the depths came a crash, a long, slipping roar. In another
instant there was a lighter crash and a lighter sliding roar.

Two horses, shaking, paralyzed with fear, were left upon the narrow level.
Beyond them a couple of men were crawling along the stone. Up on the level
stood the two Indians, holding down frightened horses, and staring at the
fatal slope.

And Shefford lay there under the cedar, in the ghastly grip of the moment,
hardly comprehending that his ill-aimed shot had been a thunderbolt.

He did not think of shooting at the Piutes; they, however, recovering from
their shock, evidently feared the ambush, for they swiftly drew up the
slope and passed out of sight. The frightened horses below whistled and
tramped along the lower level, finally vanishing. There was nothing left
on the bare wall to prove to Shefford that it had been the scene of swift
and tragic death. He leaned from his covert and peered over the rim.
Hundreds of feet below he saw dark growths of pinyons. There was no sign
of a pile of horses and men, and then he realized that he could not tell
the number that had perished. The swift finale had been as stunning to him
as if lightning had struck near him.

Suddenly it flashed over him what state of suspense and torture Fay and
Jane must be in at that very moment. And, leaping up, he ran out of the
cedars to the slope behind and hurried down at risk of limb. The sun had
set by this time. He hoped he could catch up with the party before dark.
He went straight down, and the end of the slope was a smooth, low wall.
The Indian must have descended with the horses at some other point. The
canyon was about fifty yards wide and it headed under the great slope of
Navajo Mountain. These smooth, rounded walls appeared to end at its low
rim.

Shefford slid down upon a grassy bank, and finding the tracks of the
horses, he followed them. They led along the wall. As soon as he had
assured himself that Nas Ta Bega had gone down the canyon he abandoned the
tracks and pushed ahead swiftly. He heard the soft rush of running water.
In the center of the canyon wound heavy lines of bright-green foliage,
bordering a rocky brook. The air was close, warm, and sweet with perfume
of flowers. The walls were low and shelving, and soon lost that rounded
appearance peculiar to the wind-worn slopes above. Shefford came to where
the horses had plowed down a gravelly bank into the clear, swift water of
the brook. The little pools of water were still muddy. Shefford drank,
finding the water cold and sweet, without the bitter bite of alkali. He
crossed and pushed on, running on the grassy levels. Flowers were
everywhere, but he did not notice them particularly. The canyon made many
leisurely turns, and its size, if it enlarged at all, was not perceptible
to him yet. The rims above him were perhaps fifty feet high.
Cottonwood-trees began to appear along the brook, and blossoming
buck-brush in the corners of wall.

He had traveled perhaps a mile when Nas Ta Bega, appearing to come out of
the thicket, confronted him.

“Hello!” called Shefford. “Where’re Fay—and the others?”

The Indian made a gesture that signified the rest of the party were beyond
a little way. Shefford took Nas Ta Bega’s arm, and as they walked, and he
panted for breath, he told what had happened back on the slopes.

The Indian made one of his singular speaking sweeps of hand, and he
scrutinized Shefford’s face, but he received the news in silence. They
turned a corner of wall, crossed a wide, shallow, boulder-strewn place in
the brook, and mounted the bank to a thicket. Beyond this, from a clump of
cottonwoods, Lassiter strode out with a gun in each hand. He had been
hiding.

“Shore I’m glad to see you,” he said, and the eyes that piercingly fixed
on Shefford were now as keen as formerly they had been mild.

“Gone! Lassiter—they’re gone,” broke out Shefford. “Where’s Fay—and
Jane?”

Lassiter called, and presently the women came out of the thick brake, and
Fay bounded forward with her swift stride, while Jane followed with eager
step and anxious face. Then they all surrounded Shefford.

“It was Shadd—and his gang,” panted Shefford. “Eight in all. Three
or four Piutes—the others outlaws. They lost track of us. Went below
the place—where they shot at us. And they came up—on a bad
slope.”

Shefford described the slope and the deep chasm and how Shadd led up to
the point where he saw his mistake and then how the catastrophe fell.

“I shot—and missed,” repeated Shefford, with the sweat in beads on
his pale face. “I missed Shadd. Maybe I hit the horse. He plunged—reared—fell
back—a terrible fall—right upon that bunch of horses and men
below…. In a horrible, wrestling, screaming tangle they slid over the
rim! I don’t know how many. I saw some men running along. I saw three
other horses plunging. One slipped and went over. … I have no idea how
many, but Shadd and some of his gang went to destruction.”

“Shore thet’s fine!” said Lassiter. “But mebbe I won’t get to use them
guns, after all.”

“Hardly on that gang,” laughed Shefford. “The two Piutes and what others
escaped turned back. Maybe they’ll meet a posse of Mormons—for of
course the Mormons will track us, too—and come back to where Shadd
lost his life. That’s an awful place. Even the Piute got lost—couldn’t
follow Nas Ta Bega. It would take any pursuers some time to find how we
got in here. I believe we need not fear further pursuit. Certainly not
to-night or to-morrow. Then we’ll be far down the canyon.”

When Shefford concluded his earnest remarks the faces of Fay and Jane had
lost the signs of suppressed dread.

“Nas Ta Bega, make camp here,” said Shefford. “Water—wood—grass—why,
this ‘s something like…. Fay, how’s your arm?”

“It hurts,” she replied, simply.

“Come with me down to the brook and let me wash and bind it properly.”

They went, and she sat upon a stone while he knelt beside her and untied
his scarf from her arm. As the blood had hardened, it was necessary to
slit her sleeve to the shoulder. Using his scarf, he washed the blood from
the wound, and found it to be merely a cut, a groove, on the surface.

“That’s nothing,” Shefford said, lightly. “It’ll heal in a day. But
there’ll always be a scar. And when we—we get back to civilization,
and you wear a pretty gown without sleeves, people will wonder what made
this mark on your beautiful arm.”

Fay looked at him with wonderful eyes. “Do women wear gowns without
sleeves?” she asked.

“They do.”

“Have I a—beautiful arm?”

She stretched it out, white, blue-veined, the skin fine as satin, the
lines graceful and flowing, a round, firm, strong arm.

“The most beautiful I ever saw,” he replied.

But the pleasure his compliment gave her was not communicated to him. His
last impression of that right arm had been of its strength, and his mind
flashed with lightning swiftness to a picture that haunted him—Waggoner
lying dead on the porch with that powerfully driven knife in his breast.
Shefford shuddered through all his being. Would this phantom come often to
him like that? Hurriedly he bound up her arm with the scarf and did not
look at her, and was conscious that she felt a subtle change in him.

The short twilight ended with the fugitives comfortable in a camp that for
natural features could not have been improved upon. Darkness found Fay and
Jane asleep on a soft mossy bed, a blanket tucked around them, and their
faces still and beautiful in the flickering camp-fire light. Lassiter did
not linger long awake. Nas Ta Bega, seeing Shefford’s excessive fatigue,
urged him to sleep. Shefford demurred, insisting that he share the
night-watch. But Nas Ta Bega, by agreeing that Shefford might have the
following night’s duty, prevailed upon him.

Shefford seemed to shut his eyes upon darkness and to open them
immediately to the light. The stream of blue sky above, the gold tints on
the western rim, the rosy, brightening colors down in the canyon, were
proofs of the sunrise. This morning Nas Ta Bega proceeded leisurely, and
his manner was comforting. When all was in readiness for a start he gave
the mustang he had ridden to Shefford, and walked, leading the
pack-animal.

The mode of travel here was a selection of the best levels, the best
places to cross the brook, the best banks to climb, and it was a process
of continual repetition. As the Indian picked out the course and the
mustangs followed his lead there was nothing for Shefford to do but take
his choice between reflection that seemed predisposed toward gloom and an
absorption in the beauty, color, wildness, and changing character of
Nonnezoshe Boco.

Assuredly his experience in the desert did not count in it a trip down
into a strange, beautiful, lost canyon such as this. It did not widen,
though the walls grew higher. They began to lean and bulge, and the narrow
strip of sky above resembled a flowing blue river. Huge caverns had been
hollowed out by some work of nature, what, he could not tell, though he
was sure it could not have been wind. And when the brook ran close under
one of these overhanging places the running water made a singular,
indescribable sound. A crack from a hoof on a stone rang like a hollow
bell and echoed from wall to wall. And the croak of a frog—the only
living creature he had so far noted in the canyon—was a weird and
melancholy thing.

Fay rode close to him, and his heart seemed to rejoice when she spoke,
when she showed how she wanted to be near him, yet, try as he might, he
could not respond. His speech to her—what little there was—did
not come spontaneously. And he suffered a remorse that he could not be
honestly natural to her. Then he would drive away the encroaching gloom,
trusting that a little time would dispel it.

“We are deeper down than Surprise Valley,” said Fay.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“Here are the pink and yellow sago-lilies. You remember we went once to
find the white ones? I have found white lilies in Surprise Valley, but
never any pink or yellow.”

Shefford had seen flowers all along the green banks, but he had not marked
the lilies. Here he dismounted and gathered several. They were larger than
the white ones of higher altitudes, of the same exquisite beauty and
fragility, of such rare pink and yellow hues as he had never seen. He gave
the flowers to Fay.

“They bloom only where it’s always summer,” she said.

That expressed their nature. They were the orchids of the summer canyon.
They stood up everywhere starlike out of the green. It was impossible to
prevent the mustangs treading them under hoof. And as the canyon deepened,
and many little springs added their tiny volume to the brook, every grassy
bench was dotted with lilies, like a green sky star-spangled. And this
increasing luxuriance manifested itself in the banks of purple moss and
clumps of lavender daisies and great clusters of yellow violets. The brook
was lined by blossoming buck-rush; the rocky corners showed the crimson
and magenta of cactus; ledges were green with shining moss that sparkled
with little white flowers. The hum of bees filled the air.

But by and by this green and colorful and verdant beauty, the almost level
floor of the canyon, the banks of soft earth, the thickets and the clumps
of cotton-woods, the shelving caverns and the bulging walls—these
features gradually were lost, and Nonnezoshe Boco began to deepen in bare
red and white stone steps, the walls sheered away from one another,
breaking into sections and ledges, and rising higher and higher, and there
began to be manifested a dark and solemn concordance with the nature that
had created this rent in the earth.

There was a stretch of miles where steep steps in hard red rock alternated
with long levels of round boulders. Here one by one the mustangs went
lame. And the fugitives, dismounting to spare the faithful beasts, slipped
and stumbled over these loose and treacherous stones. Fay was the only one
who did not show distress. She was glad to be on foot again and the
rolling boulders were as stable as solid rock for her.

The hours passed; the toil increased; the progress diminished; one of the
mustangs failed entirely and was left; and all the while the dimensions of
Nonnezoshe Boco magnified and its character changed. It became a
thousand-foot walled canyon, leaning, broken, threatening, with great
yellow slides blocking passage, with huge sections split off from the main
wall, with immense dark and gloomy caverns. Strangely, it had no
intersecting canyon. It jealously guarded its secret. Its unusual
formations of cavern and pillar and half-arch led the mind to expect any
monstrous stone-shape left by an avalanche or cataclysm.

Down and down the fugitives toiled. And now the stream-bed was bare of
boulders, and the banks of earth. The floods that had rolled down that
canyon had here borne away every loose thing. All the floor was bare red
and white stone, polished, glistening, slippery, affording treacherous
foothold. And the time came when Nas Ta Bega abandoned the stream-bed to
take to the rock-strewn and cactus-covered ledges above.

Jane gave out and had to be assisted upon the weary mustang. Fay was
persuaded to mount Nack-yal again. Lassiter plodded along. The Indian bent
tired steps far in front. And Shefford traveled on after him, footsore and
hot.

The canyon widened ahead into a great, ragged, iron-hued amphitheater, and
from there apparently turned abruptly at right angles. Sunset rimmed the
walls. Shefford wondered dully when the Indian would halt to camp. And he
dragged himself onward with eyes down on the rough ground.

When he raised them again the Indian stood on a point of slope with folded
arms, gazing down where the canyon veered. Something in Nas Ta Bega’s pose
quickened Shefford’s pulse and then his steps. He reached the Indian and
the point where he, too, could see beyond that vast jutting wall that had
obstructed his view.

A mile beyond all was bright with the colors of sunset, and spanning the
canyon in the graceful shape arid beautiful hues of a rainbow was a
magnificent stone bridge.

“Nonnezoshe!” exclaimed the Navajo, with a deep and sonorous roll in his
voice.

XVIII. AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW

The rainbow bridge was the one great natural phenomenon, the one grand
spectacle, which Shefford had ever seen that did not at first give vague
disappointment, a confounding of reality, a disenchantment of contrast
with what the mind had conceived.

But this thing was glorious. It silenced him, yet did not awe or stun. His
body and brain, weary and dull from the toil of travel, received a
singular and revivifying freshness. He had a strange, mystic perception of
this rosy-hued stupendous arch of stone, as if in a former life it had
been a goal he could not reach. This wonder of nature, though
all-satisfying, all-fulfilling to his artist’s soul, could not be a
resting-place for him, a destination where something awaited him, a height
he must scale to find peace, the end of his strife. But it seemed all
these. He could not understand his perception or his emotion. Still, here
at last, apparently, was the rainbow of his boyish dreams and of his
manhood—a rainbow magnified even beyond those dreams, no longer
transparent and ethereal, but solidified, a thing of ages, sweeping up
majestically from the red walls, its iris-hued arch against the blue sky.

Nas Ta Bega led on down the ledge and Shefford plodded thoughtfully after
him. The others followed. A jutting corner of wall again hid the canyon.
The Indian was working round to circle the huge amphitheater. It was slow,
irritating, strenuous toil, for the way was on a steep slant, rough and
loose and dragging. The rocks were as hard and jagged as lava. And the
cactus further hindered progress. When at last the long half-circle had
been accomplished the golden and rosy lights had faded.

Again the canyon opened to view. All the walls were pale and steely and
the stone bridge loomed dark. Nas Ta Bega said camp would be made at the
bridge, which was now close. Just before they reached it the Navajo halted
with one of his singular actions. Then he stood motionless. Shefford
realized that Nas Ta Bega was saying his prayer to this great stone god.
Presently the Indian motioned for Shefford to lead the others and the
horses on under the bridge. Shefford did so, and, upon turning, was amazed
to see the Indian climbing the steep and difficult slope on the other
side. All the party watched him until he disappeared behind the huge base
of cliff that supported the arch. Shefford selected a level place for
camp, some few rods away, and here, with Lassiter, unsaddled and unpacked
the lame, drooping mustangs. When this was done twilight had fallen. Nas
Ta Bega appeared, coming down the steep slope on this side of the bridge.
Then Shefford divined why the Navajo had made that arduous climb. He would
not go under the bridge. Nonnezoshe was a Navajo god. And Nas Ta Bega,
though educated as a white man, was true to the superstition of his
ancestors.

Nas Ta Bega turned the mustangs loose to fare for what scant grass grew on
bench and slope. Firewood was even harder to find than grass. When the
camp duties had been performed and the simple meal eaten there was gloom
gathering in the canyon and the stars had begun to blink in the pale strip
of blue above the lofty walls. The place was oppressive and the fugitives
mostly silent. Shefford spread a bed of blankets for the women, and Jane
at once lay wearily down. Fay stood beside the flickering fire, and
Shefford felt her watching him. He was conscious of a desire to get away
from her haunting gaze. To the gentle good-night he bade her she made no
response.

Shefford moved away into a strange dark shadow cast by the bridge against
the pale starlight. It was a weird, black belt, where he imagined he was
invisible, but out of which he could see. There was a slab of rock near
the foot of the bridge, and here Shefford composed himself to watch, to
feel, to think the unknown thing that seemed to be inevitably coming to
him.

A slight stiffening of his neck made him aware that he had been
continually looking up at the looming arch. And he found that insensibly
it had changed and grown. It had never seemed the same any two moments,
but that was not what he meant. Near at hand it was too vast a thing for
immediate comprehension. He wanted to ponder on what had formed it—to
reflect upon its meaning as to age and force of nature, yet all he could
do at each moment was to see. White stars hung along the dark curved line.
The rim of the arch seemed to shine. The moon must be up there somewhere.
The far side of the canyon was now a blank, black wall. Over its towering
rim showed a pale glow. It brightened. The shades in the canyon lightened,
then a white disk of moon peered over the dark line. The bridge turned to
silver, and the gloomy, shadowy belt it had cast blanched and vanished.

Shefford became aware of the presence of Nas Ta Bega. Dark, silent,
statuesque, with inscrutable eyes uplifted, with all that was spiritual of
the Indian suggested by a somber and tranquil knowledge of his place
there, he represented the same to Shefford as a solitary figure of human
life brought out the greatness of a great picture. Nonnezoshe Boco needed
life, wild life, life of its millions of years—and here stood the
dark and silent Indian.

There was a surge in Shefford’s heart and in his mind a perception of a
moment of incalculable change to his soul. And at that moment Fay Larkin
stole like a phantom to his side and stood there with her uncovered head
shining and her white face lovely in the moonlight.

“May I stay with you—a little?” she asked, wistfully. “I can’t
sleep.”

“Surely you may,” he replied. “Does your arm hurt too badly, or are you
too tired to sleep?”

“No—it’s this place. I—I—can’t tell you how I feel.”

But the feeling was there in her eyes for Shefford to read. Had he too
great an emotion—did he read too much—did he add from his
soul? For him the wild, starry, haunted eyes mirrored all that he had seen
and felt under Nonnezoshe. And for herself they shone eloquently of
courage and love.

“I need to talk—and I don’t know how,” she said.

He was silent, but he took her hands and drew her closer.

“Why are you so—so different?” she asked, bravely.

“Different?” he echoed.

“Yes. You are kind—you speak the same to me as you used to. But
since we started you’ve been different, somehow.”

“Fay, think how hard and dangerous the trip’s been! I’ve been worried—and
sick with dread—with—Oh, you can’t imagine the strain I’m
under! How could I be my old self?”

“It isn’t worry I mean.”

He was too miserable to try to find out what she did mean; besides, he
believed, if he let himself think about it, he would know what troubled
her.

“I—I am almost happy,” she said, softly.

“Fay!… Aren’t you at all afraid?”

“No. You’ll take care of me…. Do—do you love me—like you did
before?”

“Why, child! Of course—I love you,” he replied, brokenly, and he
drew her closer. He had never embraced her, never kissed her. But there
was a whiteness about her then—a wraith—a something from her
soul, and he could only gaze at her.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I thought I knew it that—that night.
But I’m only finding it out now…. And somehow I had to tell you here.”

“Fay, I haven’t said much to you,” he said, hurriedly, huskily. “I haven’t
had a chance. I love you. I—I ask you—will you be my wife?”

“Of course,” she said, simply, but the white, moon-blanched face colored
with a dark and leaping blush.

“We’ll be married as soon as we get out of the desert,” he went on. “And
we’ll forget—all—all that’s happened. You’re so young. You’ll
forget.”

“I’d forgotten already, till this difference came in you. And pretty soon—when
I can say something more to you—I’ll forget all except Surprise
Valley—and my evenings in the starlight with you.”

“Say it then—quick!”

She was leaning against him, holding his hands in her strong clasp,
soulful, tender, almost passionate.

“You couldn’t help it…. I’m to blame…. I remember what I said.”

“What?” he queried in amaze.

“’YOU CAN KILL HIM!’… I said that. I made you kill him.”

“Kill—whom?” cried Shefford.

“Waggoner. I’m to blame…. That must be what’s made you different. And,
oh, I’ve wanted you to know it’s all my fault…. But I wouldn’t be sorry
if you weren’t…. I’m glad he’s dead.”

“YOU—THINK—I—” Shefford’s gasping whisper failed in the
shock of the revelation that Fay believed he had killed Waggoner. Then
with the inference came the staggering truth—her guiltlessness; and
a paralyzing joy held him stricken.

A powerful hand fell upon Shefford’s shoulder, startling him. Nas Ta Bega
stood there, looking down upon him and Fay. Never had the Indian seemed so
dark, inscrutable of face. But in his magnificent bearing, in the spirit
that Shefford sensed in him, there were nobility and power and a strange
pride.

The Indian kept one hand on Shefford’s shoulder, and with the other he
struck himself on the breast. The action was that of an Indian, impressive
and stern, significant of an Indian’s prowess.

“My God!” breathed Shefford, very low.

“Oh, what does he mean?” cried Fay.

Shefford held her with shaking hands, trying to speak, to fight a way out
of these stultifying emotions.

“Nas Ta Bega—you heard. She thinks—I killed Waggoner!”

All about the Navajo then was dark and solemn disproof of her belief. He
did not need to speak. His repetition of that savage, almost boastful blow
on his breast added only to the dignity, and not to the denial, of a
warrior.

“Fay, he means he killed the Mormon,” said Shefford. “He must have, for I
did not!”

“Ah!” murmured Fay, and she leaned to him with passionate, quivering
gladness. It was the woman—the human—the soul born in her that
came uppermost then; now, when there was no direct call to the wild and
elemental in her nature, she showed a heart above revenge, the instinct of
a saving right, of truth as Shefford knew them. He took her into his arms
and never had he loved her so well.

“Nas Ta Bega, you killed the Mormon,” declared Shefford, with a voice that
had gained strength. No silent Indian suggestion of a deed would suffice
in that moment. Shefford needed to hear the Navajo speak—to have Fay
hear him speak. “Nas Ta Bega, I know I understand. But tell her. Speak so
she will know. Tell it as a white man would!”