by Zane Grey
VI. IN THE HIDDEN VALLEY
Shefford had hardly seen her face, yet he was more interested in a womanthan he had ever been before. Still, he reflected, as he returned tocamp, he had been under a long strain, he was unduly excited by this newand adventurous life, and these, with the mystery of this village, wereperhaps 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 starsthrough the needle-like fringe of the pinyons. It seemed impossibleto 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 feelalone, yet not alone. He raised himself to see the quiet forms ofWithers and Nas Ta Bega prone in the starlight, and their slow, deepbreathing was that of tired men. A bell on a mustang rang somewhere offin the valley and gave out a low, strange, reverberating echo fromwall to wall. When it ceased a silence set in that was deader thanany silence he had ever felt, but gradually he became aware of the lowmurmur of the brook. For the rest there was no sound of wind, no bark ofdog or yelp of coyote, no sound of voice in the village.
He tried to sleep, but instead thought of this girl who was called theSago Lily. He recalled everything incident to their meeting and thewalk to her home. Her swift, free step, her graceful poise, her shapelyform--the long braid of hair, dull gold in the twilight, the beautifulbare foot and the strong round arm--these he thought of and recalledvividly. But of her face he had no idea except the shadowy, hauntingloveliness, and that grew more and more difficult to remember. The toneof her voice and what she had said--how the one had thrilled him and theother mystified! It was her voice that had most attracted him. There wassomething in it besides music--what, he could not tell--sadness, depth,something like that in Nas Ta Bega's beauty springing from disuse. Butthis seemed absurd. Why should he imagine her voice one that had notbeen 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, andhe tried to throw it off, or imagine it one he might have felt in anyother of these strange women of the hidden village.
But Shefford's intelligence and his good sense, which became operativewhen he was fully roused and set the situation clearly before his eyes,had no effect upon his deeper, mystic, and primitive feelings. He sawthe truth and he felt something that he could not name. He would not bea fool, but there was no harm in dreaming. And unquestionably,beyond all doubt, the dream and the romance that had lured him to thewilderness were here; hanging over him like the shadows of the greatpeaks. His heart swelled with emotion when he thought of how theblack and incessant despair of the past was gone. So he embraced anyattraction that made him forget and think and feel; some instinctstronger than intelligence bade him drift.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Joe's rolling voice awoke him next morning and he rose with a singularzest. When or where in his life had he awakened in such a beautifulplace? Almost he understood why Venters and Bess had been haunted bymemories of Surprise Valley. The morning was clear, cool, sweet; thepeaks were dim and soft in rosy cloud; shafts of golden sunlight shotdown into the purple shadows. Mocking-birds were singing. His body wassore and tired from the unaccustomed travel, but his heart was full,happy. His spirit wanted to run, and he knew there was something outthere waiting to meet it. The Indian and the trader and the Mormon allmeant more to him this morning. He had grown a little overnight. Nas TaBega's deep "Bi Nai" rang in his ears, and the smiles of Withers andJoe were greetings. He had friends; he had work; and there was rich,strange, and helpful life to live. There was even a difference inthe mustang Nack-yal. He came readily; he did not look wild; he had afriendly 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-dayyou can meet the women. Make yourself popular. I've already made youthat. These women are most all young and lonesome. Talk to them. Makethem like you. Then some day you may be safe to ask questions. Lastnight I wanted to ask old Mother Smith if she ever heard the nameFay Larkin. But I thought better of it. If there's a girl here or atStonebridge of that name we'll learn it. If there's mystery we'd bettergo slow. Mormons are hell on secret and mystery, and to pry into theiraffairs is to queer yourself. My advice is--just be as nice as you canbe, and let things happen."
Fay Larkin! All in a night Shefford had forgotten her. Why? He ponderedover 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?" askedWithers 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 mein Navajo, 'Bi Nai has lost his God. He has come far to find a wife. NasTa Bega is his brother.'... He meant he'll find both God and wife foryou. I don't know about that, but I say take the Indian as he thinks heis--your brother. Long before I knew Nas Ta Bega well my wife usedto tell me about him. He's a sage and a poet--the very spirit of thisdesert. 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 foryou."
"I shall take Nas Ta Bega as my brother--and be proud," repliedShefford.
"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 andhe knows you. He's ready to fight for you now. He's taken your troubleto heart. You wouldn't think Joe is deeply religious. Yet he is. He maynever 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'lllead somewhere."
"I'm singularly fortunate--I--who had lost all friends. Withers, I amgrateful. I'll prove it. I'll show--"
Withers's upheld hand checked further speech, and Shefford realized thatbeneath the rough exterior of this desert trader there was fine feeling.These men of crude toil and wild surroundings were beginning to loom uplarge in Shefford's mind.
The day began leisurely. The men were yet at breakfast when the womenof the village began to come one by one to the spring. Joe Lake madefriendly and joking remarks to each. And as each one passed on down thepath 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 gotto get me a woman like her."
Shefford saw and heard, yet he was all the time half unconsciouslywatching with strange eagerness for a white figure to appear. At lasthe saw her--the same girl with the hood, the same swift step. Alittle shock or quiver passed over him, and at the moment all that wasexplicable 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, allright. 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 theheavy 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 likeher," he said. But the former jocose tone was lacking and he appearedthoughtful.
. . . . . . . . . . .
Withers first took Shefford to the building used for a school. It wassomewhat larger than the oth
er houses, had only one room with two doorsand 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 embarrassedas her pupils were shy, and the visitors withdrew without having heard aword of lessons.
Withers then called upon Smith, Henninger, and Beal, and their wives.Shefford found himself cordially received, and what little he did sayshowed him how he would be listened to when he cared to talk. These folkwere plain and kindly, and he found that there was nothing about them todislike. The men appeared mild and quiet, and when not conversing seemedaustere. The repose of the women was only on the surface; underneath hefelt their intensity. Especially in many of the younger women, whomhe met in the succeeding hour, did he feel this power of restrainedemotion. This surprised him, as did also the fact that almost everyone of them was attractive and some of them were exceedingly pretty.He became so interested in them all as a whole that he could notindividualize one. They were as widely different in appearance andtemperament as women of any other class, but it seemed to Shefford thatone common trait united them--and it was a strange, checked yearning forsomething that he could not discover. Was it happiness? They certainlyseemed to be happy, far more so than those millions of women who werechasing 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 stumbledupon a remarkable situation.
He had been told the last names of only three women, and their husbandswere in the village. The names of the others were Ruth, Rebecca,Joan--he could not recall them all. They were the mothers of thesebeautiful children. The fathers, as far as he was concerned, were asintangible as myths. Shefford was an educated clergyman, a man of theworld, and, as such, knew women in his way. Mormons might be strange anddifferent, yet the fundamental truth was that all over the world mothersof children were wives; there was a relation between wife and motherthat did not need to be named to be felt; and he divined from thisthat, whatever the situation of these lonely and hidden women, they knewthemselves to be wives. Shefford absolutely satisfied himself on thatscore. If they were miserable they certainly did not show it, and thequestion came to him how just was the criticism of uninformed men? Hisjudgment 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 hadstudied the totemism and exogamy of the primitive races, and here washis opportunity to understand polygamy. One wife for one man--that wasthe law. Mormons broke it openly; Gentiles broke it secretly. Mormonsacknowledged all their wives and protected their children; Gentilesacknowledged one wife only. Unquestionably the Mormons were wrong, butwere not the Gentiles still more wrong?
. . . . . . . . . . .
The following day Joe Lake appeared reluctant to start for Stonebridgewith Withers.
"Joe, you'd better come along," said the trader, dryly. "I reckon you'veseen a little too much of the Sago Lily."
Lake offered no reply, but it was evident from his sober face thatWithers had not hit short of the mark. Withers rode off, with a partingword to Shefford, and finally Joe somberly mounted his bay and trotteddown 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. Hemade friends with the children and he talked to the women until he washoarse. Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never inhis life had he had such an attentive audience. And as he showed nocuriosity, asked no difficult questions, gradually what reserve he hadnoted wore away, and the end of the day saw him on a footing with themthat Withers had predicted.
By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest andfriendliness of these women that he might have lived long among them.He was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which he freelygave, and not with selfish motive. He liked these women; he liked to seethe somber shade pass from their faces, to see them brighten. He had metthe girl Mary at the spring and along the path, but he had not yetseen her face. He was always looking for her, hoping to meet her, andconfessed to himself that the best of the day for him were the morningand evening visits she made to the spring. Nevertheless, for some reasonhard to divine, he was reluctant to seek her deliberately.
Always while he had listened to her neighbors' talk, he had hoped theymight let fall something about her. But they did not. He receivedan impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he hadsupposed. They all made one big family. Still, she seemed a littleoutside. He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea. He merelyfelt it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligentreason. Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.
It was his habit to call upon Mother Smith in the afternoons. From thefirst her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making him aMormon. Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke of theirreligion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds tofree and simple discussion of their faith. Shefford lent respectfulattention. He would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, andapparently they considered him the latter, and were earnest to save hissoul. 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 Smithhappened to be the only woman in the village who had ever mentionedreligion to him. She was old, of a past generation; the young womenbelonged to the present. Shefford pondered the significant difference.
Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery thatwas like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time manylittle ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest. Thislast was of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning moreabout the villagers. He gathered from keen interpretation of subtlewords and looks that here in this lonely village, the same as in allthe 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 demandsof an increasingly interesting position. He discovered, with a somewhatgrim amusement, that a clergyman's experience in a church full of womenhad not been entirely useless.
One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle questionin regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily. Inresponse he received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honeyof woman's jealousy. He said no more. Certain ideas of his werestrengthened, 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 eventhe decision and the strange thrill it imparted did not change hisreluctance.
Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and theshadows were thick under the pinyons. There was no light in the door orwindow. He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the pathit rose. It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.
"Good evening," he said. "It's Shefford. May I stay and talk a littlewhile?"
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 blanketon 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 ina 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 densetwilight.
"I've been wanting to call on you."
She made some slight movement. Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he knewthe moment was big and potent.
"Won't you sit here?" he asked.
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br /> She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, inthe twilight. And it struck him mute. But he had no glimpse such as hadflashed upon him from under her hood that other night. He thought of awhite flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the rareand perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild canyon. She was only agirl. She sat very still, looking straight before her, and seemed to bewaiting, 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 andhours. But the thing in my mind I haven't spoken of. I've never askedany questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I cameout here. I need some one who will keep my secret, and perhaps helpme.... Would you?"
"Yes, if I could," she replied.
"You see I've got to trust you, or one of these other women. You're allMormons. I don't mean that's anything against you. I believe you'reall good and noble. But the fact makes--well, makes a liberty of speechimpossible. What can I do?"
Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed lessstrain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the right trackand did not regret his impulse. Even had he regretted it he would havegone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence was his driving mysticforce.
Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to bean artist, his renunciation to his father's hope, his career as aclergyman, his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made him awanderer.
"Oh--I'm sorry!" she said. The faint starlight shone on her face, in hereyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then. She seemeddeeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed girlhood then--allthe quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of a heart innocent anduntutored. She looked at him with great, starry, questioning eyes, as ifthey had just become aware of his presence, as if a man had been strangeto her.
"Thank you. It's good of you to be sorry," he said. "My instinct guidedme 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 ofmyself.... Oh, I'm afraid I can't help you."
How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in needof help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a judgmentformed from observation of a class different from hers.
"Maybe you CAN help me. Let's see," he said. "I don't seek to make youtalk 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 hasrenounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns.It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley.... You see--howI talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak what perhapsshould be unsaid. And it's hard, because I feel I could unburden myselfto 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 shewas warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed upon him. Thestarlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white face.
"I'll tell you presently," he said. "I've trusted you. I'll trust youwith 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 axto grind. I hope I won't wrong you. That's why I'm going to be perfectlyfrank. I might wait for days to get better acquainted. But the impulseis on me. I've been so interested in all you Mormon women. The fact--themeaning of this hidden village is so--so terrible to me. But that's noneof my business. I have spent my afternoons and evenings with these womenat 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 afraidor 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? MaybeI really don't want to know. I came with selfish motive and now I'd liketo--to--what shall I say? Make your life a little less lonely for thewhile I'm here. That's all. It needn't offend. And if you accept it, howmuch easier I can tell you my secret. You are a Mormon and I--well, I amonly a wanderer in these wilds. But--we might help each other.... Have Imade 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. Hedid not stop to analyze his own emotions, but he had an inkling thatonce 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. Excitementalone could not be accountable for this. He had not divined the causefor such agitation. He was puzzled, troubled, and drawn irresistibly. Hehad not said what he had planned to say. The moment had given birth tohis 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 theunconsciousness of a child and the passion of a woman. He gazed out intothe dark shadows and up at the white stars, and then at the bowed headwith its mass of glinting hair. But her agitation was no longer strangeto him. A few gentle and kind words had proved her undoing. He knewthen that whatever her life was, no kindness or sympathy entered it.Presently she recovered, and sat as before, only whiter of face itseemed, and with something tragic in her dark eyes. She was growing coldand 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 aninexplicable sweetness in the power his voice seemed to have upon her.She bowed her head in acquiescence. And Shefford began his story. Didshe grow still, like stone, or was that only his vivid imagination?He told her of Venters and Bess--of Lassiter and Jane--of little FayLarkin--of the romance, and then the tragedy of Surprise Valley.
"So, when my Church disowned me," he concluded, "I conceived the ideaof wandering into the wilds of Utah to save Fay Larkin from that canyonprison. It grew to be the best and strongest desire of my life. I thinkif 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 seenher--when she's only a dream girl? But I believe if she were to become areality--a flesh-and-blood girl--that I would love her."
That was more than Shefford had ever confessed to any one, and itstirred 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 meit is a country of rainbows, both in the evanescent air and in thechangeless stone. Always as a boy there had been for me some hauntingpromise, some treasure at the foot of the rainbow. I shall expect thecurve of a rainbow to lead me down into Surprise Valley. A dreamer, youwill call me. But I have had strange dreams come true.... Mary, do youthink 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, willyou answer a few little questions, if I swear by my honor I'll neverreveal what you tell me?"
"I'll try."
He moistened his lips. Why did she seem so strange, so far away? Thehovering shadows made him nervous. Always he had been afraid of thedark. 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 theportent of his next query. He had not dreamed it would be so hard toput, or would affect him so powerfully. A warmth, a glow, a happinesspervaded his spirit; and the chill, the gloom were as if they had neverbeen.
"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 hestrode away into the starlight.