Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  “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 the unconsciousness of a child and the passion of a woman. He gazed out into the dark shadows and up at the white stars, and then at the bowed head with its mass of glinting hair. But her agitation was no longer strange to him. A few gentle and kind words had proved her undoing. He knew then that whatever her life was, no kindness or sympathy entered it. Presently she recovered, and sat as before, only whiter of face it seemed, and with something tragic in her dark eyes. She was growing cold and 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 an inexplicable sweetness in the power his voice seemed to have upon her. She bowed her head in acquiescence. And Shefford began his story. Did she grow still, like stone, or was that only his vivid imagination? He told her of Venters and Bess — of Lassiter and Jane — of little Fay Larkin — of the romance, and then the tragedy of Surprise Valley.

  “So, when my Church disowned me,” he concluded, “I conceived the idea of wandering into the wilds of Utah to save Fay Larkin from that canyon prison. It grew to be the best and strongest desire of my life. I think if 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 seen her — when she’s only a dream girl? But I believe if she were to become a reality — a flesh-and-blood girl — that I would love her.”

  That was more than Shefford had ever confessed to any one, and it stirred 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 me it is a country of rainbows, both in the evanescent air and in the changeless stone. Always as a boy there had been for me some haunting promise, some treasure at the foot of the rainbow. I shall expect the curve of a rainbow to lead me down into Surprise Valley. A dreamer, you will call me. But I have had strange dreams come true.... Mary, do you think 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, will you answer a few little questions, if I swear by my honor I’ll never reveal what you tell me?”

  “I’ll try.”

  He moistened his lips. Why did she seem so strange, so far away? The hovering shadows made him nervous. Always he had been afraid of the dark. 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 the portent of his next query. He had not dreamed it would be so hard to put, or would affect him so powerfully. A warmth, a glow, a happiness pervaded his spirit; and the chill, the gloom were as if they had never been.

  “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 he strode away into the starlight.

  VII. SAGO-LILIES

  THE INDIAN RETURNED to camp that night, and early the next day, which was Sunday, Withers rode in, accompanied by a stout, gray-bearded personage wearing a long black coat.

  “Bishop Kane, this is my new man, John Shefford,” said the trader.

  Shefford acknowledged the introduction with the respectful courtesy evidently in order, and found himself being studied intently by clear blue eyes. The bishop appeared old, dry, and absorbed in thought; he spoke quaintly, using in every speech some Biblical word or phrase; and he had an air of authority. He asked Shefford to hear him preach at the morning service, and then he went off into the village.

  “Guess he liked your looks,” remarked Withers.

  “He certainly sized me up,” replied Shefford.

  “Well, what could you expect? Sure I never heard of a deal like this — a handsome young fellow left alone with a lot of pretty Mormon women! You’ll understand when you learn to know Mormons. Bishop Kane’s a square old chap. Crazy on religion, maybe, but otherwise he’s a good fellow. I made the best stand I could for you. The Mormons over at Stonebridge were huffy because I hadn’t consulted them before fetching you over here. If I had, of course you’d never have gotten here. It was Joe Lake who made it all right with them. Joe’s well thought of, and he certainly stood up for you.”

  “I owe him something, then,” replied Shefford. “Hope my obligations don’t grow beyond me. Did you leave Joe at Stonebridge?”

  “Yes. He wanted to stay, and I had work there that’ll keep him awhile. Shefford, we got news of Shadd — bad news. The half-breed’s cutting up rough. His gang shot up some Piutes over here across the line. Then he got run out of Durango a few weeks ago for murder. A posse of cowboys trailed him. But he slipped them. He’s a fox. You know he was trailing us here. He left the trail, Nas Ta Bega said. I learned at Stonebridge that Shadd is well disposed toward Mormons. It takes the Mormons to handle Indians. Shadd knows of this village and that’s why he shunted off our trail. But he might hang down in the pass and wait for us. I think I’d better go back to Kayenta alone, across country. You stay here till Joe and the Indian think it safe to leave. You’ll be going up on the slope of Navajo to load a pack-train, and from there it may be well to go down West canyon to Red Lake, and home over the divide, the way you came. Joe’ll decide what’s best. And you might as well buckle on a gun and get used to it. Sooner or later you’ll have to shoot your way through.”

  Shefford did not respond with his usual enthusiasm, and the omission caused the trader to scrutinize him closely.

  “What’s the matter?” he queried. “There’s no light in your eye to-day. You look a little shady.”

  “I didn’t rest well last night,” replied Shefford. “I’m depressed this morning. But I’ll cheer up directly.”

  “Did you get along with the women?”

  “Very well indeed. And I’ve enjoyed myself. It’s a strange, beautiful place.”

  “Do you like the women?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you seen much of the Sago Lily?”

  “No. I carried her bucket one night — and saw her only once again. I’ve been with the other women most of the time.”

  “It’s just as well you didn’t run often into Mary. Joe’s sick over her. I never saw a girl with a face and form to equal hers. There’s danger here for any man, Shefford. Even for you who think you’ve turned your back on the world! Any of these Mormon women may fall in love with you. They CAN’T love their husbands. That’s how I figure it. Religion holds them, not love. And the peculiar thing is this: they’re second, third, or fourth wives, all sealed. That means their husbands are old, have picked them out for youth and physical charms, have chosen the very opposite to th
eir first wives, and then have hidden them here in this lonely hole.... Did you ever imagine so terrible a thing?”

  “No, Withers, I did not.”

  “Maybe that’s what depressed you. Anyway, my hunch is worth taking. Be as nice as you can, Shefford. Lord knows it would be good for these poor women if every last one of them fell in love with you. That won’t hurt them so long as you keep your head. Savvy? Perhaps I seem rough and coarse to a man of your class. Well, that may be. But human nature is human nature. And in this strange and beautiful place you might love an Indian girl, let alone the Sago Lily. That’s all. I sure feel better with that load off my conscience. Hope I don’t offend.”

  “No indeed. I thank you, Withers,” replied Shefford, with his hand on the trader’s shoulder. “You are right to caution me. I seem to be wild — thirsting for adventure — chasing a gleam. In these unstable days I can’t answer for my heart. But I can for my honor. These unfortunate women are as safe with me as — as they are with you and Joe.”

  Withers uttered a blunt laugh.

  “See here, son, look things square in the eye. Men of violent, lonely, toilsome lives store up hunger for the love of woman. Love of a STRANGE woman, if you want to put it that way. It’s nature. It seems all the beautiful young women in Utah are corralled in this valley. When I come over here I feel natural, but I’m not happy. I’d like to make love to — to that flower-faced girl. And I’m not ashamed to own it. I’ve told Molly, my wife, and she understands. As for Joe, it’s much harder for him. Joe never has had a wife or sweetheart. I tell you he’s sick, and if I’d stay here a month I’d be sick.”

  Withers had spoken with fire in his eyes, with grim humor on his lips, with uncompromising brutal truth. What he admitted was astounding to Shefford, but, once spoken, not at all strange. The trader was a man who spoke his inmost thought. And what he said suddenly focused Shefford’s mental vision clear and whole upon the appalling significance of the tragedy of those women, especially of the girl whose life was lonelier, sadder, darker than that of the others.

  “Withers, trust me,” replied Shefford.

  “All right. Make the best of a bad job,” said the trader, and went off about his tasks.

  Shefford and Withers attended the morning service, which was held in the school-house. Exclusive of the children every inhabitant of the village was there. The women, except the few eldest, were dressed in white and looked exceedingly well. Manifestly they had bestowed care upon this Sabbath morning’s toilet. One thing surely this dress occasion brought out, and it was evidence that the Mormon women were not poor, whatever their misfortunes might be. Jewelry was not wanting, nor fine lace. And they all wore beautiful wild flowers of a kind unknown to Shefford. He received many a bright smile. He looked for Mary, hoping to see her face for the first time in the daylight, but she sat far forward and did not turn. He saw her graceful white neck, the fine lines of her throat, and her colorless cheek. He recognized her, yet in the light she seemed a stranger.

  The service began with a short prayer and was followed by the singing of a hymn. Nowhere had Shefford heard better music or sweeter voices. How deeply they affected him! Had any man ever fallen into a stranger adventure than this? He had only to shut his eyes to believe it all a creation of his fancy — the square log cabin with its red mud between the chinks and a roof like an Indian hogan — the old bishop in his black coat, standing solemnly, his hand beating time to the tune — the few old women, dignified and stately — the many young women, fresh and handsome, lifting their voices.

  Shefford listened intently to the bishop’s sermon. In some respects it was the best he had ever heard. In others it was impossible for an intelligent man to regard seriously. It was very long, lasting an hour and a half, and the parts that were helpful to Shefford came from the experience and wisdom of a man who had grown old in the desert. The physical things that had molded characters of iron, the obstacles that only strong, patient men could have overcome, the making of homes in a wilderness, showed the greatness of this alien band of Mormons. Shefford conceded greatness to them. But the strange religion — the narrowing down of the world to the soil of Utah, the intimations of prophets on earth who had direct converse with God, the austere self-conscious omnipotence of this old bishop — these were matters that Shefford felt he must understand better, and see more favorably, if he were not to consider them impossible.

  Immediately after the service, forgetting that his intention had been to get the long-waited-for look at Mary in the light of the sun, Shefford hurried back to camp and to a secluded spot among the cedars. Strikingly it had come to him that the fault he had found in Gentile religion he now found in the Mormon religion. An old question returned to haunt him — were all religions the same in blindness? As far as he could see, religion existed to uphold the founders of a Church, a creed. The Church of his own kind was a place where narrow men and women went to think of their own salvation. They did not go there to think of others. And now Shefford’s keen mind saw something of Mormonism and found it wanting. Bishop Kane was a sincere, good, mistaken man. He believed what he preached, but that would not stand logic. He taught blindness and mostly it appeared to be directed at the women. Was there no religion divorced from power, no religion as good for one man as another, no religion in the spirit of brotherly love? Nas Ta Bega’s “Bi Nai” (brother) — that was love, if not religion, and perhaps the one and the other were the same. Shefford kept in mind an intention to ask Nas Ta Bega what he thought of the Mormons.

  Later, when opportunity afforded, he did speak to the Indian. Nas Ta Bega threw away his cigarette and made an impressive gesture that conveyed as much sorrow as scorn.

  “The first Mormon said God spoke to him and told him to go to a certain place and dig. He went there and found the Book of Mormon. It said follow me, marry many wives, go into the desert and multiply, send your sons out into the world and bring us young women, many young women. And when the first Mormon became strong with many followers he said again: Give to me part of your labor — of your cattle and sheep — of your silver — that I may build me great cathedrals for you to worship in. And I will commune with God and make it right and good that you have more wives. That is Mormonism.”

  “Nas Ta Bega, you mean the Mormons are a great and good people blindly following a leader?”

  “Yes. And the leader builds for himself — not for them.”

  “That is not religion. He has no God but himself.”

  “They have no God. They are blind like the Mokis who have the creeping growths on their eyes. They have no God they can see and hear and feel, who is with them day and night.”

  It was late in the afternoon when Bishop Kane rode through the camp and halted on his way to speak to Shefford. He was kind and fatherly. “Young man, are you open to faith?” he questioned gravely.

  “I think I am,” replied Shefford, thankful he could answer readily.

  “Then come into the fold. You are a lost sheep. ‘Away on the desert I heard its cry.’... God bless you. Visit me when you ride to Stonebridge.”

  He flicked his horse with a cedar branch and trotted away beside the trader, and presently the green-choked neck of the valley hid them from view. Shefford could not have said that he was glad to be left behind, and yet neither was he sorry.

  That Sabbath evening as he sat quietly with Nas Ta Bega, watching the sunset gilding the peaks, he was visited by three of the young Mormon women — Ruth, Joan, and Hester. They deliberately sought him and merrily led him off to the village and to the evening service of singing and prayer. Afterward he was surrounded and made much of. He had been popular before, but this was different. When he thoughtfully wended his way campward under the quiet stars he realized that the coming of Bishop Kane had made a subtle change in the women. That change was at first hard to define, but from every point by which he approached it he came to the same conclusion — the bishop had not objected to his presence in the village. The women became natural, free,
and unrestrained. A dozen or twenty young and attractive women thrown much into companionship with one man. He might become a Mormon. The idea made him laugh. But upon reflection it was not funny; it sobered him. What a situation! He felt instinctively that he ought to fly from this hidden valley. But he could not have done it, even had he not been in the trader’s employ. The thing was provokingly seductive. It was like an Arabian Nights’ tale. What could these strange, fatally bound women do? Would any one of them become involved in sweet toils such as were possible to him? He was no fool. Already eyes had flashed and lips had smiled.

  A thousand like thoughts whirled through his mind. And when he had calmed down somewhat two things were not lost upon him — an intricate and fascinating situation, with no end to its possibilities, threatened and attracted him — and the certainty that, whatever change the bishop had inaugurated, it had made these poor women happier. The latter fact weighed more with Shefford than fears for himself. His word was given to Withers. He would have felt just the same without having bound himself. Still, in the light of the trader’s blunt philosophy, and of his own assurance that he was no fool, Shefford felt it incumbent upon him to accept a belief that there were situations no man could resist without an anchor. The ingenuity of man could not have devised a stranger, a more enticing, a more overpoweringly fatal situation. Fatal in that it could not be left untried! Shefford gave in and clicked his teeth as he let himself go. And suddenly he thought of her whom these bitter women called the Sago Lily.

  The regret that had been his returned with thought of her. The saddest disillusion of his life, the keenest disappointment, the strangest pain, would always be associated with her. He had meant to see her face once, clear in the sunlight, so that he could always remember it, and then never go near her again. And now it came to him that if he did see much of her these other women would find him like the stone wall in the valley. Folly! Perhaps it was, but she would be safe, maybe happier. When he decided, it was certain that he trembled.