The Rainbow Trail

by Zane Grey

  II. THE SAGI

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

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

  Upon the level floor of the valley lay thin patches of snow whichhad fallen during the night. The air was biting cold, yet stimulatedShefford while it stung him. His horse drank rather slowly anddisgustedly. Then Shefford mounted and reluctantly turned his back uponthe 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-movingmass and coming with a precision almost like a march. This factsurprised Shefford, for there was not an Indian in sight. Presently hesaw that a dog was leading the flock, and a little later he discoveredanother dog in the rear of the sheep. They were splendid, long-haireddogs, of a wild-looking shepherd breed. He halted his horse to watch theprocession pass by. The flock covered fully an acre of ground and thesheep were black, white, and brown. They passed him, making a littlepattering roar on the hard-caked sand. The dogs were taking the sheep into 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 heespied a bunch of ponies. A shrill whistle told him that they had seenhim. They were wild, shaggy, with long manes and tails. They stopped,threw up their heads, and watched him. Shefford certainly returned theattention. There was no Indian with them. Presently, with a snort, theleader, which appeared to be a stallion, trotted behind the others,seemed to be driving them, and went clear round the band to get in thelead again. He was taking them in to water, the same as the dogs hadtaken the sheep.

  These incidents were new and pleasing to Shefford. How ignorant he hadbeen of life in the wilderness! Once more he received subtle intimationsof what he might learn out in the open; and it was with a less weightedheart that he faced the gateway between the huge yellow bluffs on hisleft and the slow rise of ground to the black mesa on his right. Helooked back in time to see the trading-post, bleak and lonely on thebare slope, pass out of sight behind the bluffs. Shefford felt nofear--he really had little experience of physical fear--but it wascertain that he gritted his teeth and welcomed whatever was to come tohim. He had lived a narrow, insulated life with his mind on spiritualthings; his family and his congregation and his friends--except thatone new friend whose story had enthralled him--were people of quietreligious habit; the man deep down in him had never had a chance. Hebreathed hard as he tried to imagine the world opening to him, andalmost 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 therewere other tracks, not so plain, and these Shefford decided had beenmade by Willetts and the girl the day before. He climbed a ridge, halfsoft sand and half hard, and saw right before him, rising in strikingform, two great yellow buttes, like elephant legs. He rode between them,amazed at their height. Then before him stretched a slowly ascendingvalley, walled on one side by the black mesa and on the other by lowbluffs. For miles a dark-green growth of greasewood covered the valley,and Shefford could see where the green thinned and failed, to give placeto sand. He trotted his horse and made good time on this stretch.

  The day contrasted greatly with any he had yet experienced. Gray cloudsobscured the walls of rock a few miles to the west, and Shefford sawsqualls of snow like huge veils dropping down and spreading out. Thewind 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 thedriving white pellets of snow, almost like hail, was so freezing bittercold that the former wind seemed warm in comparison. The squall passedas swiftly as it had come, and it left Shefford so benumbed he could nothold the bridle. He tumbled off his horse and walked. By and by the suncame out and soon warmed him and melted the thin layer of snow on thesand. He was still on the trail of the Indian girl, but hers were nowthe only tracks he could see.

  All morning he gradually climbed, with limited view, until at last hemounted to a point where the country lay open to his sight on all sidesexcept where the endless black mesa ranged on into the north. A ruggedyellow peak dominated the landscape to the fore, but it was far away.Red and jagged country extended westward to a huge flat-topped wall ofgray rock. Lowering swift clouds swept across the sky, like droopingmantles, and darkened the sun. Shefford built a little fire out of deadgreasewood sticks, and with his blanket round his shoulders he hung overthe blaze, scorching his clothes and hands. He had been cold before inhis life but he had never before appreciated fire. This desert blastpierced him. The squall enveloped him, thicker and colder and windierthan 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 sunhad once more warmed him.

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

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

  Shefford had pictures in his mind, pictures of stone walls and wildvalleys and domed buttes, all of which had been painted in colorful andvivid words by his friend Venters. He believed he would recognize thedistinctive and remarkable landmarks Venters had portrayed, and he wascertain that he had not yet come upon one of them. This was his secondlonely day of travel and he had grown more and more susceptible to theinfluence of horizon and the different prominent points. He attributeda gradual change in his feelings to the loneliness and the increasingwildness. Between Tuba and Flagstaff he had met Indians and anoccasional prospector and teamster. Here he was alone, and though hefelt some strange gladness, he could not help but see the difference.

  He rode on during the gray, lowering, chilly day, and toward eveningthe clouds broke in the west, and a setting sun shone through therift, burnishing the desert to red and gold. Shefford's instinctivebut deadened love of the beautiful in nature stirred into life, and themoment of its rebirth was a melancholy and sweet one. Too late for theartist'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 likean island in a sea of grass. There was an abundance of dead greasewoodfor a camp-fire, and, after searching over the rock, he found littlepools of melted snow in the depressions. He took off the saddle andpack, watered his horse, and, hobbling him as well as his inexperiencepermitted, he turned him loose on the grass.

  Then while he built a fire and prepared a meal the night came down uponhim. In the lee of the rock he was well sheltered from the wind, butthe air, was bitter cold. He gathered all the dead greasewood in thevicinity, replenished the fire, and rolled in his blanket, back to theblaze. The loneliness and the coyotes did not bother him this night.He was too tired and cold. He wen
t to sleep at once and did not awakenuntil 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 indeedwhen 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. Froma high stone ridge Shefford searched the grassy flats and slopes, allto no purpose. Then he tried to track the horse, but this was equallyfutile. 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 hisshoulder, and set forth, sure at least of one thing--that he was a verymuch 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 thedifferent landmarks that had grown familiar. It took hours of steadywalking to reach and pass the yellow peak that had been a kind ofgoal. He saw many sheep trails and horse tracks in the vicinity of thismountain, and once he was sure he espied an Indian watching him from abold ridge-top.

  The day was bright and warm, with air so clear it magnified objectshe knew to be far away. The ascent was gradual; there were many narrowflats connected by steps; and the grass grew thicker and longer. At noonShefford halted under the first cedar-tree, a lonely, dwarfed shrub thatseemed to have had a hard life. From this point the rise of ground wasmore perceptible, and straggling cedars led the eye on to a purple slopethat merged into green of pinyon and pine. Could that purple be thesage Venters had so feelingly described, or was it merely the purple ofdeceiving distance? Whatever it might be, it gave Shefford a thrill andmade him think of the strange, shy, and lovely woman Venters had won outhere in this purple-sage country.

  He calculated that he had ridden thirty miles the day before and hadalready traveled ten miles today, and therefore could hope to be in thepass before night. Shefford resumed his journey with too much energy andenthusiasm to think of being tired. And he discovered presently thatthe straggling cedars and the slope beyond were much closer than hehad judged them to be. He reached the sage to find it gray instead ofpurple. Yet it was always purple a little way ahead, and if he half shuthis eyes it was purple near at hand. He was surprised to find that hecould not breathe freely, or it seemed so, and soon made the discoverythat the sweet, pungent, penetrating fragrance of sage and cedar hadthis strange effect upon him. This was an exceedingly dry and odorousforest, where every open space between the clumps of cedars was chokedwith luxuriant sage. The pinyons were higher up on the mesa, and thepines still higher. Shefford appeared to lose himself. There were notrails; the black mesa on the right and the wall of stone on the leftcould not be seen; but he pushed on with what was either singularconfidence or rash impulse. And he did not know whether that slope waslong or short. Once at the summit he saw with surprise that it brokeabruptly and the descent was very steep and short on that side. Throughthe trees he once more saw the black mesa, rising to the dignity of amountain; and he had glimpses of another flat, narrow valley, this timewith a red wall running parallel with the mesa. He could not help buthurry down to get an unobstructed view. His eagerness was rewarded by asplendid scene, yet to his regret he could not force himself to believeit had any relation to the pictured scenes in his mind. The valley washalf a mile wide, perhaps several miles long, and it extended in a curvebetween the cedar-sloped mesa and a looming wall of red stone. There wasnot a bird or a beast in sight. He found a well-defined trail, but ithad not been recently used. He passed a low structure made of peeledlogs and mud, with a dark opening like a door. It did not take him manyminutes to learn that the valley was longer than he had calculated.He walked swiftly and steadily, in spite of the fact that the pack hadbecome burdensome. What lay beyond the jutting corner of the mesa hadincreasing fascination for him and acted as a spur. At last he turnedthe 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 thedistance, and it disappeared as his striding forward made the crest ofthe slope rise toward the sky.

  Again his view became restricted, and he lost the sense of a slow andgradual 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 wasslanting 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 heartbeat thick and fast.

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

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

  Dead cedars right at hand assured him a comfortable night with steadyfire; and when he had satisfied his hunger he arranged an easy seatbefore 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 themoan of the wind in the cedars--wild, sweet sounds that were balm to hiswounded spirit! They seemed a part of the silence, rather than a breakin it or a hindrance to the feeling of it. But suddenly that silencedid break to the rattle of a rock. Shefford listened, thinking some wildanimal was prowling around. He felt no alarm. Presently he heard thesound again, and again. Then he recognized the crack of unshod hoofsupon rock. A horse was coming down the trail. Shefford rather resentedthe interruption, though he still had no alarm. He believed he wasperfectly safe. As a matter of fact, he had never in his life beenanything but safe and padded around with wool, hence, never havingexperienced peril, he did not know what fear was.

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

  He rode to within twenty feet of Shefford and the fire. The horse wasdark, wild-looking, and seemed ready to run. The rider appeared to be anIndian, and yet had something about him suggesting the cowboy. At onceShefford remembered what Presbrey had said about half-breeds. A littleshock, 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 abouthim was dark except the glint of a rifle across the saddle. The faceunder the sombrero was only a shadow. Shefford kicked the fire-logs anda brighter blaze lightened the scene. Then he saw this stranger a littlemore clearly, and made out an unusually large head, broad dark face, asinister tight-shut mouth, and gleaming black eyes.

  Those eyes were unmistakably hostile. They roved searchingly overShefford's pack and then over his person. Shefford felt for the gun thatPresbrey had given him. But it was gone. He had left it back where hehad lost his horse, and had not thought of it since. Then a strange,slow-coming cold ag
itation possessed Shefford. Something gripped histhroat.

  Suddenly Shefford was stricken at a menacing movement on the part ofthe horseman. He had drawn a gun. Shefford saw it shine darkly in thefirelight. The Indian meant to murder him. Shefford saw the grim, darkface in a kind of horrible amaze. He felt the meaning of that drawnweapon as he had never felt anything before in his life. And hecollapsed back into his seat with an icy, sickening terror. In a secondhe was dripping wet with cold sweat. Lightning-swift thoughts flashedthrough his mind. It had been one of his platitudes that he was notafraid of death. Yet here he was a shaking, helpless coward. What hadhe learned about either life or death? Would this dark savage plungehim into the unknown? It was then that Shefford realized his hollowphilosophy 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 werethey to this ruthless night-wanderer, this raw and horrible wildness ofthe desert?

  Incapable of voluntary movement, with tongue cleaving to the roof of hismouth, Shefford watched the horseman and the half-poised gun. It was notyet leveled. Then it dawned upon Shefford that the stranger's head wasturned a little, his ear to the wind. He was listening. His horse waslistening. Suddenly he straightened up, wheeled his horse, and trottedaway into the darkness. But he did not climb the ridge down which he hadcome.

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

  Three horses, two with riders, moved in dark shapes across the skylineabove the ridge, disappeared as had Shefford's first visitor, and thenrode into the light. Shefford saw two Indians--a man and a woman; thenwith surprise recognized the latter to be the Indian girl he had met atRed Lake. He was still more surprised to recognize in the third horsethe one he had lost at the last camp. Shefford rose, a little shaky onhis legs, to thank these Indians for a double service. The man slippedfrom his saddle and his moccasined feet thudded lightly. He was tall,lithe, erect, a singularly graceful figure, and as he advanced Sheffordsaw a dark face and sharp, dark eyes. The Indian was bareheaded, withhis hair bound in a band. He resembled the girl, but appeared to have afiner 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. Thenthe Indian gave Shefford the bridle of the horse, and made signs thatappeared to indicate the horse had broken his hobbles and strayed.Shefford thanked him. Thereupon the Indian unsaddled and led the horsesaway, evidently to water them. The girl remained behind. Sheffordaddressed her, but she was shy and did not respond. He then set aboutcooking a meal for his visitors, and was busily engaged at this when theIndian returned without the horses. Presently Shefford resumed his seatby the fire and watched the two eat what he had prepared. They certainlywere hungry and soon had the pans and cups empty. Then the girl drewback a little into the shadow, while the man sat with his legs crossedand 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 himas this one. Looked at superficially, he appeared young, wild, silent,locked in his primeval apathy, just a healthy savage; but looked at moreattentively, he appeared matured, even old, a strange, sad, broodingfigure, with a burden on his shoulders. Shefford found himself growingcurious.

  "What place?" asked Shefford, waving his hand toward the dark openingbetween the black cliffs.

  "Sagi," replied the Indian.

  That did not mean anything to Shefford, and he asked if the Sagi was thepass, 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 thewhite man's language did not please him, but the clearness and correctpronunciation 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 stayhere long."

  Nas Ta Bega's dark eyes were fixed steadily upon Shefford. He reflectedthat he could not remember having felt so penetrating a gaze. Butneither the Indian's eyes nor face gave any clue to his thoughts.

  "Navajo no savvy Jesus Christ," said the Indian, and his voice rolledout low and deep.

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

  "No!... Me no missionary," cried Shefford, and he flung up apassionately repudiating hand.

  A singular flash shot from the Indian's dark eyes. It struck Sheffordeven 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 toindicate 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 hishands he tried to show that his was a trouble of the heart.

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

  The Indian's next move was to place his saddle, which he evidently meantto use for a pillow. Then he spread a goat-skin on the ground, laydown upon it, with his back to the fire, and, pulling a long-hairedsaddle-blanket over his shoulders, he relaxed and became motionless. Hissister, Glen Naspa, did likewise, except that she stayed farther awayfrom the fire, and she had a larger blanket, which covered her well. Itappeared to Shefford that they went to sleep at once.

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

  There was something in the companionship of these Indians that he hadnot experienced before. He still had a strange and weak feeling--theaftermath of that fear which had sickened him with its horrible icygrip. Nas Ta Bega's arrival had frightened away that dark and silentprowler of the night; and Shefford was convinced the Indian had savedhis 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 withdeath. That was something to know. It helped him. And he gathered fromhis strange feeling that the romantic quest which had brought himinto the wilderness might turn out to be an antidote for the morbidbitterness of heart.

  With new sensations had come new thoughts. Right then it was verypleasant to sit in the warmth and light of the roaring cedar fire. Therewas 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 justfinished the longest, hardest day's work of his life! Had that anythingto do with a something almost like peace which seemed to hover near inthe shadows, trying to come to him? He had befriended an Indian girl,and now her brother had paid back the service. Both the giving andrecei
ving were somehow sweet to Shefford. They opened up hitherto vaguechannels 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 anIndian girl had somehow operated to make a change in John Shefford'sexistence. It had liberated a spirit in him. Moreover, it had worked itsinfluence outside his mind. The Indian girl and her brother had followedhis trail to return his horse, perhaps to guide him safely, but,unknowingly perhaps, they had done infinitely more than that for him. AsShefford's eye wandered over the dark, still figures of the sleepers hehad a strange, dreamy premonition, or perhaps only a fancy, that therewas to be more come of this fortunate meeting.

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