The Rainbow Trail

by Zane Grey

  III. KAYENTA

  The stamping of horses awoke Shefford. He saw a towering crag, rosyin the morning light, like a huge red spear splitting the clear blueof sky. He got up, feeling cramped and sore, yet with unfamiliarexhilaration. The whipping air made him stretch his hands to the fire.An odor of coffee and broiled meat mingled with the fragrance of woodsmoke. Glen Naspa was on her knees broiling a rabbit on a stick over thered coals. Nas Ta Bega was saddling the ponies. The canyon appearedto be full of purple shadows under one side of dark cliffs and goldenstreaks 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 hadimpressed 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 themost striking and attractive feature about him; they were coal-blackand piercing; the intent look out of them seemed to come from a keen andinquisitive mind.

  Shefford ate breakfast with the Indians, and then helped with the fewpreparations for departure. Before they mounted, Nas Ta Bega pointedto horse tracks in the dust. They were those that had been made byShefford's threatening visitor of the night before. Shefford explainedby word and sign, and succeeded at least in showing that he had beenin danger. Nas Ta Bega followed the tracks a little way and presentlyreturned.

  "Shadd," he said, with an ominous shake of his head. Shefford did notunderstand 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 pleasedShefford. He climbed a little stiffly into his own saddle. Then Nas TaBega 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 oneleading to the right along the base of the slope. Shefford saw down intothe red wash that bisected the canyon floor. It was a sheer wall ofred 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 ofgreasewood hid the surroundings from Shefford's sight. Presently thetrail led out into the open, and Shefford saw that he was at the neck ofa wonderful valley that gradually widened with great jagged red peaks onthe 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 thatcanyon.

  Soon Glen Naspa put her pony to a long, easy, swinging canter and herfollowers did likewise. As they got outward into the valley Sheffordlost the sense of being overshadowed and crowded by the nearness ofthe huge walls and crags. The trail appeared level underfoot, but at adistance it was seen to climb. Shefford found where it disappeared overthe foot of a slope that formed a graceful rising line up to thecedared 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 ofthe country held Shefford's gaze until the Indian drew his attentionto things near at hand. Then Shefford saw flocks of sheep dottingthe gray-green valley, and bands of beautiful long-maned, long-tailedponies.

  For several miles the scene did not change except that Shefford imaginedhe 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 tohalt upon the edge of a steep slope leading down into a valley vast inits barren gray reaches.

  "Kayenta," said Nas Ta Bega.

  Shefford at first saw nothing except the monotonous gray valley reachingfar to the strange, grotesque monuments of yellow cliff. Then closeunder the foot of the slope he espied two squat stone houses with redroofs, 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--thecrude stone structures with their earthen roofs, the piles of dirtywool, 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 andweather-beaten, and appeared young in activity rather than face. A gunswung at his hip and a row of brass-tipped cartridges showed in hisbelt. Shefford looked into a face that he thought he had seen before,until he realized the similarity was only the bronze and hard line andrugged cast common to desert men. The gray searching eyes went rightthrough him.

  "Glad to see you. Get down and come in. Just heard from an Indian thatyou were coming. I'm the trader Withers," he said to Shefford. His voicewas 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 arriveat Kayenta.

  "Hello! Nas Ta Bega!" exclaimed Withers. His tone expressed a surprisehis face did not show. "Did this Indian bring you in?"

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

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

  "Who's Shadd?" asked Shefford.

  "He's a half-breed Ute--bad Indian, outlaw, murderer. He's in witha gang of outlaws who hide in the San Juan country.... Reckon you'relucky. How'd you come to be there in the Sagi alone?"

  "I traveled from Red Lake. Presbrey, the trader there, advised againstit, but I came anyway."

  "Well." Withers's gray glance was kind, if it did express thefoolhardiness of Shefford's act. "Come into the house.... Never mind thehorse. My wife will sure be glad to see you."

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

  "Sure am glad you rode in," said Withers, for the fourth time. "Now youmake yourself at home. Stay here--come over to the store--do what youlike. I've got to work. To-night we'll talk."

  Shefford went out with his host. The store was as interesting asPresbrey's, though much smaller and more primitive. It was full ofeverything, and smelled strongly of sheep and goats. There was a narrowaisle between sacks of flour and blankets on one side and a high counteron the other. Behind this counter Withers stood to wait upon the buyingIndians. They sold blankets and skins and bags of wool, and in exchangetook silver money. Then they lingered and with slow, staid reluctancebought one thing and then another--flour, sugar, canned goods, coffee,tobacco, ammunition. The counter was never without two or three Indiansleaning on their dark, silver-braceleted arms. But as they were slow tosell and buy and go, so were others slow to come in. Their voices weresoft and low and it seemed to Shefford they were whispering. He likedto hear them and to look at the banded heads, the long, twisted rollsof black hair tied with white cords, the still dark faces and watchfuleyes, the silver ear-rings, the slender, shapely brown hands, the leanand sinewy shapes, the corduroys with a belt and gun, and the small,close-fitting bu
ckskin moccasins buttoned with coins. These Indiansall appeared young, and under the quiet, slow demeanor there was fierceblood and fire.

  By and by two women came in, evidently squaw and daughter. The formerwas a huge, stout Indian with a face that was certainly pleasant if notjolly.

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

  "They're good spenders, but slow," said Withers. "The Navajos arecareful 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, andhis sun-blistered face and watery eyes told of the open desert. He wasengaged in weighing sacks of wool brought in by the Indians. Near bystood a framework of poles from which an immense bag was suspended. Fromthe top of this bag protruded the head and shoulders of an Indian whoappeared to be stamping and packing wool with his feet. He grinned atthe curious Shefford. But Shefford was more interested in the Mormon. Sofar 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 beenof a long-past generation of Mormons, fanatical, ruthless, andunchangeable. 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 hadcome West to find. Shefford was somewhat amazed and discomfited to havehis polite and friendly overtures repulsed. Whisner might have been anIndian. He was cold, incommunicative, aloof; and there was somethingabout him that made the sensitive Shefford feel his presence wasresented.

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

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

  Shefford had no trouble in making friends with the lazy sleepy-eyedburros. They let him pull their long ears and rub their noses, but themustangs standing around were unapproachable. They had wild eyes; theyraised 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 othersriding away. Big wagons told how the bags of wool were transported outof the wilds and how supplies were brought in. A wide, hard-packed roadled off to the east, and another, not so clearly defined, wound away tothe north. And Indian trails streaked off in all directions.

  Shefford discovered, however, when he had walked off a mile or so acrossthe valley to lose sight of the post, that the feeling of wildnessand loneliness returned to him. It was a wonderful country. It heldsomething for him besides the possible rescue of an imprisoned girl froma wild canyon.

  . . . . . . . . . . .

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

  "I've lived my life in the desert. I've met many men and have been afriend 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 giveyou 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 todo, how long I shall stay. My thoughts put in words would seem solike dreams. Maybe they are dreams. Perhaps I'm only chasing aphantom--perhaps I'm only hunting the treasure at the foot of therainbow."

  "Well, this is the country for rainbows," laughed Withers. "In summerfrom June to August when it storms we have rainbows that'll make youthink you're in another world. The Navajos have rainbow mountains,rainbow canyons, rainbow bridges of stone, rainbow trails. It sure israinbow country."

  That deep and mystic chord in Shefford thrilled. Here it wasagain--something tangible at the bottom of his dream.

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

  He had lived at Kayenta for several years--hard and profitless years byreason of marauding outlaws. He could not have lived there at all butfor the protection of the Indians. His father-in-law had been friendlywith the Navajos and Piutes for many years, and his wife had beenbrought up among them. She was held in peculiar reverence and affectionby both tribes in that part of the country. Probably she knew more ofthe Indians' habits, religion, and life than any white person in theWest. Both tribes were friendly and peaceable, but there were badIndians, half-breeds, and outlaws that made the trading-post a ventureWithers had long considered precarious, and he wanted to move andintended to some day. His nearest neighbors in New Mexico and Coloradowere a hundred miles distant and at some seasons the roads wereimpassable. To the north, however, twenty miles or so, was situated aMormon village named Stonebridge. It lay across the Utah line. Withersdid some business with this village, but scarcely enough to warrantthe risks he had to run. During the last year he had lost severalpack-trains, one of which he had never heard of after it leftStonebridge.

  "Stonebridge!" exclaimed Shefford, and he trembled. He had heard thatname. In his memory it had a place beside the name of another villageShefford 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 andMonticello are far north across the San Juan.... There used to beanother 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 asemblance of the aloofness Shefford had observed in Whisner.

  "Withers, pardon an impertinence--I am deeply serious.... Are you aMormon?"

  "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 amisunderstood people."

  "That's for them."

  "No. I'm only fair-minded."

  Shefford paused, trying to curb his thrilling impulse, b
ut it was toostrong.

  "You said there used to be another village.... Was the name ofit--Cottonwoods?"

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

  "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'sgone now, all except a few stone walls."

  "What became of it?"

  "Torn down by Mormons years ago. They destroyed it and moved away. I'veheard 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 helpseeing what a tenderfoot--stranger--you are to the desert. Yet, here youare--speaking of what you should know nothing of.... And there's morebehind 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, withincreasing 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 caughta 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 longand then appeared satisfied.

  "I've heard the name Fay Larkin," he said, slowly. "I reckon that's allI'll say till you tell your story."

  . . . . . . . . . . .

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

  "My name is John Shefford. I am twenty-four," began Shefford. "Myfamily--"

  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 saidsomething in Navajo to the trader.

  "How," he said to Shefford, and extended his hand. He was stately, butthere was no mistaking his friendliness. Then he sat down before thefire, doubled his legs under him after the Indian fashion, and with darkeyes on the blazing logs seemed to lose himself in meditation.

  "He likes the fire," explained Withers. "Whenever he comes to Kayenta healways 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 onShefford. "When I was a boy we moved from the country to a town calledBeaumont, Illinois. There was a college in Beaumont and eventually I wassent to it to study for the ministry. I wanted to be---- But never mindthat.... By the time I was twenty-two I was ready for my career as aclergyman. I preached for a year around at different places and then gota church in my home town of Beaumont. I became exceedingly good friendswith a man named Venters, who had recently come to Beaumont. He was asingular man. His wife was a strange, beautiful woman, very reserved,and she had wonderful dark eyes. They had money and were devoted to eachother, and perfectly happy. They owned the finest horses ever seen inIllinois, and their particular enjoyment seemed to be riding. They werealways taking long rides. It was something worth going far for to seeMrs. Venters on a horse.

  "It was through my own love of horses that I became friendly withVenters. He and his wife attended my church, and as I got to see moreof them, gradually we grew intimate. And it was not until I did getintimate with them that I realized that both seemed to be haunted by thepast. They were sometimes sad even in their happiness. They driftedoff into dreams. They lived back in another world. They seemed to belistening. Indeed, they were a singularly interesting couple, and I grewgenuinely fond of them. By and by they had a little girl whom they namedJane. The coming of the baby made a change in my friends. They werehappier, and I observed that the haunting shadow did not so oftenreturn.

  "Venters had spoken of a journey west that he and his wife meant totake some time. But after the baby came he never mentioned his wife inconnection with the trip. I gathered that he felt compelled to go toclear 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--thestrangest, wildest, and most tragic I ever heard. I can't tell it allnow. It is enough to say that fifteen years before he had been arider for a rich Mormon woman named Jane Withersteen, of this villageCottonwoods. She had adopted a beautiful Gentile child named Fay Larkin.Her interest in Gentiles earned the displeasure of her churchmen, and asshe was proud there came a breach. Venters and a gunman named Lassiterbecame involved in her quarrel. Finally Venters took to the canyon. Herein the wilds he found the strange girl he eventually married. For a longtime they lived in a wonderful hidden valley, the entrance to which wasguarded by a huge balancing rock. Venters got away with the girl. ButLassiter and Jane Withersteen and the child Fay Larkin were driven intothe canyon. They escaped to the valley where Venters had lived. Lassiterrolled the balancing rock, and, crashing down the narrow trail, itloosened the weathered walls and closed the narrow outlet for ever."