by Zane Grey
XVIII. AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW
The rainbow bridge was the one great natural phenomenon, the one grandspectacle, which Shefford had ever seen that did not at first give vaguedisappointment, a confounding of reality, a disenchantment of contrastwith 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 asingular and revivifying freshness. He had a strange, mystic perceptionof this rosy-hued stupendous arch of stone, as if in a former lifeit had been a goal he could not reach. This wonder of nature, thoughall-satisfying, all-fulfilling to his artist's soul, could not be aresting-place for him, a destination where something awaited him, aheight he must scale to find peace, the end of his strife. But it seemedall these. He could not understand his perception or his emotion. Still,here at last, apparently, was the rainbow of his boyish dreams and ofhis manhood--a rainbow magnified even beyond those dreams, no longertransparent and ethereal, but solidified, a thing of ages, sweeping upmajestically from the red walls, its iris-hued arch against the bluesky.
Nas Ta Bega led on down the ledge and Shefford plodded thoughtfullyafter him. The others followed. A jutting corner of wall again hid thecanyon. The Indian was working round to circle the huge amphitheater. Itwas slow, irritating, strenuous toil, for the way was on a steep slant,rough and loose and dragging. The rocks were as hard and jagged aslava. And the cactus further hindered progress. When at last the longhalf-circle had been accomplished the golden and rosy lights had faded.
Again the canyon opened to view. All the walls were pale and steely andthe stone bridge loomed dark. Nas Ta Bega said camp would be made atthe bridge, which was now close. Just before they reached it the Navajohalted with one of his singular actions. Then he stood motionless.Shefford realized that Nas Ta Bega was saying his prayer to this greatstone god. Presently the Indian motioned for Shefford to lead the othersand the horses on under the bridge. Shefford did so, and, upon turning,was amazed to see the Indian climbing the steep and difficult slope onthe other side. All the party watched him until he disappeared behindthe huge base of cliff that supported the arch. Shefford selected alevel place for camp, some few rods away, and here, with Lassiter,unsaddled and unpacked the lame, drooping mustangs. When this was donetwilight had fallen. Nas Ta Bega appeared, coming down the steep slopeon this side of the bridge. Then Shefford divined why the Navajo hadmade that arduous climb. He would not go under the bridge. Nonnezoshewas a Navajo god. And Nas Ta Bega, though educated as a white man, wastrue to the superstition of his ancestors.
Nas Ta Bega turned the mustangs loose to fare for what scant grass grewon bench and slope. Firewood was even harder to find than grass. Whenthe camp duties had been performed and the simple meal eaten there wasgloom gathering in the canyon and the stars had begun to blink in thepale strip of blue above the lofty walls. The place was oppressive andthe fugitives mostly silent. Shefford spread a bed of blankets forthe women, and Jane at once lay wearily down. Fay stood beside theflickering fire, and Shefford felt her watching him. He was conscious ofa desire to get away from her haunting gaze. To the gentle good-night hebade her she made no response.
Shefford moved away into a strange dark shadow cast by the bridgeagainst the pale starlight. It was a weird, black belt, where heimagined he was invisible, but out of which he could see. There was aslab of rock near the foot of the bridge, and here Shefford composedhimself to watch, to feel, to think the unknown thing that seemed to beinevitably coming to him.
A slight stiffening of his neck made him aware that he had beencontinually looking up at the looming arch. And he found that insensiblyit 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 forimmediate comprehension. He wanted to ponder on what had formed it--toreflect upon its meaning as to age and force of nature, yet all he coulddo at each moment was to see. White stars hung along the dark curvedline. The rim of the arch seemed to shine. The moon must be up theresomewhere. The far side of the canyon was now a blank, black wall. Overits towering rim showed a pale glow. It brightened. The shades in thecanyon lightened, then a white disk of moon peered over the dark line.The bridge turned to silver, and the gloomy, shadowy belt it had castblanched and vanished.
Shefford became aware of the presence of Nas Ta Bega. Dark, silent,statuesque, with inscrutable eyes uplifted, with all that was spiritualof the Indian suggested by a somber and tranquil knowledge of his placethere, he represented the same to Shefford as a solitary figure ofhuman life brought out the greatness of a great picture. Nonnezoshe Boconeeded life, wild life, life of its millions of years--and here stoodthe dark and silent Indian.
There was a surge in Shefford's heart and in his mind a perception of amoment of incalculable change to his soul. And at that moment Fay Larkinstole like a phantom to his side and stood there with her uncovered headshining 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 youtoo 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 toogreat an emotion--did he read too much--did he add from his soul? Forhim the wild, starry, haunted eyes mirrored all that he had seen andfelt under Nonnezoshe. And for herself they shone eloquently of courageand 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 sincewe started you've been different, somehow."
"Fay, think how hard and dangerous the trip's been! I've beenworried--and sick with dread--with--Oh, you can't imagine the strain I'munder! 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, hebelieved, if he let himself think about it, he would know what troubledher.
"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 didbefore?"
"Why, child! Of course--I love you," he replied, brokenly, and he drewher closer. He had never embraced her, never kissed her. But there wasa whiteness about her then--a wraith--a something from her soul, and hecould only gaze at her.
"I love you," she whispered. "I thought I knew it that--that night. ButI'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. "Ihaven'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 coloredwith a dark and leaping blush.
"We'll be married as soon as we get out of the desert," he went on. "Andwe'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 prettysoon--when I can say something more to you--I'll forget all exceptSurprise 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 besorry if you weren't.... I'm glad he's dead."
"YOU--THINK--I--" Shefford's gasping whisper failed in the shock ofthe revelation that Fay believed he
had killed Waggoner. Then with theinference came the staggering truth--her guiltlessness; and a paralyzingjoy held him stricken.
A powerful hand fell upon Shefford's shoulder, startling him. Nas TaBega stood there, looking down upon him and Fay. Never had the Indianseemed so dark, inscrutable of face. But in his magnificent bearing, inthe spirit that Shefford sensed in him, there were nobility and powerand a strange pride.
The Indian kept one hand on Shefford's shoulder, and with the otherhe 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 wayout 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 boastfulblow on his breast added only to the dignity, and not to the denial, ofa 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, quiveringgladness. It was the woman--the human--the soul born in her that cameuppermost then; now, when there was no direct call to the wild andelemental in her nature, she showed a heart above revenge, the instinctof a saving right, of truth as Shefford knew them. He took her into hisarms and never had he loved her so well.
"Nas Ta Bega, you killed the Mormon," declared Shefford, with a voicethat had gained strength. No silent Indian suggestion of a deed wouldsuffice in that moment. Shefford needed to hear the Navajo speak--tohave Fay hear him speak. "Nas Ta Bega, I know I understand. But tellher. Speak so she will know. Tell it as a white man would!"
"I heard her cry out," replied the Indian, in his slow English. "Iwaited. When he came I killed him."
A poignant why was wrenched from Shefford. Nas Ta Bega stood silent.
"BI NAI!" And when that sonorous Indian name rolled in dignity from hislips he silently stalked away into the gloom. That was his answer to thewhite man.
Shefford bent over Fay, and as the strain on him broke he held hercloser and closer and his tears streamed down and his voice broke inexclamations of tenderness and thanksgiving. It did not matter what shehad thought, but she must never know what he had thought. He claspedher as something precious he had lost and regained. He was shaken witha passion of remorse. How could he have believed Fay Larkin guilty ofmurder? Women less wild and less justified than she had been driven tosuch a deed, yet how could he have believed it of her, when for two dayshe had been with her, had seen her face, and deep into her eyes? Therewas mystery in his very blindness. He cast the whole thought from himfor ever. There was no shadow between Fay and him. He had found her.He had saved her. She was free. She was innocent. And suddenly, as heseemed delivered from contending tumults within, he became aware that itwas no unresponsive creature he had folded to his breast.
He became suddenly alive to the warm, throbbing contact of her bosom, toher strong arms clinging round his neck, to her closed eyes, to the raptwhiteness of her face. And he bent to cold lips that seemed to receivehis first kisses as new and strange; but tremulously changed, at last tomeet his own, and then to burn with sweet and thrilling fire.
"My darling, my dream's come true," he said. "You are my treasure. Ifound you here at the foot of the rainbow!... What if it is a stonerainbow--if all is not as I had dreamed? I followed a gleam. And it'sled me to love and faith!"
. . . . . . . . . . .
Hours afterward Shefford walked alone to and fro under the bridge. Histrouble had given place to serenity. But this night of nights he mustlive out wide-eyed to its end.
The moon had long since crossed the streak of star-fired blue above andthe canyon was black in shadow. At times a current of wind, with all thestrangeness of that strange country in its hollow moan, rushed throughthe great stone arch. At other times there was silence such as Sheffordimagined dwelt deep under this rocky world. At still other times an owlhooted, and the sound was nameless. But it had a mocking echo thatnever ended. An echo of night, silence, gloom, melancholy death, age,eternity!
The Indian lay asleep with his dark face upturned, and the othersleepers lay calm and white in the starlight.
Shefford saw in them the meaning of life and the past--the illimitabletrain of faces that had shone the stars. There was a spirit in thecanyon, and whether or not it was what the Navajo embodied in the greatNonnezoshe, or the life of this present, or the death of the ages, orthe nature so magnificently manifested in those silent, dreaming waitingwalls--the truth for Shefford was that this spirit was God.
Life was eternal. Man's immortality lay in himself. Love of a woman washope--happiness. Brotherhood--that mystic and grand "Bi Nai!" of theNavajo--that was religion.