Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  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 fo
r 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.”