by Zane Grey
“I can go right to it, blindfolded, or in the dark.... Oh, John, hurry! I dread the wait. He might come again.”
“Joe says — they won’t come very soon.”
“Is it far — where we’re going — out of the country?”
“Ten days’ hard riding.”
“Oh! That night ride to and from Stonebridge nearly killed me. But I could walk very far, and climb for ever.”
“Fay, we’ll get out of the country if I have to carry you.”
When they arrived at the cabin Fay turned on the porch step and, with her face nearer a level with his, white and sweet in the moonlight, with her eyes shining and unfathomable, she was more than beautiful.
“You’ve never been inside my house,” she said. “Come in. I’ve something for you.”
“But it’s late,” he remonstrated. “I suppose you’ve got me a cake or pie — something to eat. You women all think Joe and I have to be fed.”
“No. You’d never guess. Come in,” she said, and the rare smile on her face was something Shefford would have gone far to see.
“Well, then, for a minute.”
He crossed the porch, the threshold, and entered her home. Her dim, white shape moved in the darkness. And he followed into a room where the moon shone through the open window, giving soft, mellow, shadowy light. He discerned objects, but not clearly, for his senses seemed absorbed in the strange warmth and intimacy of being for the first time with her in her home.
“No, it’s not good to eat,” she said, and her laugh was happy. “Here—”
Suddenly she abruptly ceased speaking. Shefford saw her plainly, and the slender form had stiffened, alert and strained. She was listening.
“What was that?” she whispered.
“I didn’t hear anything,” he whispered back.
He stepped softly nearer the open window and listened.
Clip-clop! clip-clop! clip-clop! Hard hoofs on the hard path outside!
A strong and rippling thrill went over Shefford. In the soft light her eyes seemed unnaturally large and black and fearful.
Clip-clop! clip-clop!
The horse stopped outside. Then followed a metallic clink of spur against stirrup — thud of boots on hard ground — heavy footsteps upon the porch.
A swift, cold contraction of throat, of breast, convulsed Shefford. His only thought was that he could not think.
“Ho — Mary!”
A voice liberated both Shefford’s muscle and mind — a voice of strange, vibrant power. Authority of religion and cruelty of will — these Mormon attributes constituted that power. And Shefford suffered a transformation which must have been ordered by demons. That sudden flame seemed to curl and twine and shoot along his veins with blasting force. A rancorous and terrible cry leaped to his lips.
“Ho — Mary!” Then came a heavy tread across the threshold of the outer room.
Shefford dared not look at Fay. Yet, dimly, from the corner of his eye, he saw her, a pale shadow, turned to stone, with her arms out. If he looked, if he made sure of that, he was lost. When had he drawn his gun? It was there, a dark and glinting thing in his hand. He must fly — not through cowardice and fear, but because in one more moment he would kill a man. Swift as the thought he dove through the open window. And, leaping up, he ran under the dark pinyons toward camp.
Joe Lake had been out late himself. He sat by the fire, smoking his pipe. He must have seen or heard Shefford coming, for he rose with unwonted alacrity, and he kicked the smoldering logs into a flickering blaze.
Shefford, realizing his deliverance, came panting, staggering into the light. The Mormon uttered an exclamation. Then he spoke, anxiously, but what he said was not clear in Shefford’s thick and throbbing ears. He dropped his pipe, a sign of perturbation, and he stared.
But Shefford, without a word, lunged swiftly away into the shadow of the cedars. He found relief in action. He began a steep ascent of the east wall, a dangerous slant he had never dared even in daylight, and he climbed it without a slip. Danger, steep walls, perilous heights, night, and black canyon the same — these he never thought of. But something drove him to desperate effort, that the hours might seem short.
. . . . . . . . . . .
The red sun was tipping the eastern wall when he returned to camp, and he was neither calm nor sure of himself nor ready for sleep or food. Only he had put the night behind him.
The Indian showed no surprise. But Joe Lake’s jaw dropped and his eyes rolled. Moreover, Joe bore a singular aspect, the exact nature of which did not at once dawn upon Shefford.
“By God! you’ve got nerve — or you’re crazy!” he ejaculated, hoarsely.
Then it was Shefford’s turn to stare. The Mormon was haggard, grieved, frightened, and utterly amazed. He appeared to be trying to make certain of Shefford’s being there in the flesh and then to find reason for it.
“I’ve no nerve and I am crazy,” replied Shefford. “But, Joe — what do you mean? Why do you look at me like that?”
“I reckon if I get your horse that’ll square us. Did you come back for him? You’d better hit the trail quick.”
“It’s you now who’re crazy,” burst out Shefford.
“Wish to God I was,” replied Joe.
It was then Shefford realized catastrophe, and cold fear gnawed at his vitals, so that he was sick.
“Joe, what has happened?” he asked, with the blood thick in his heart.
“Hadn’t you better tell me?” demanded the Mormon, and a red wave blotted out the haggard shade of his face.
“You talk like a fool,” said Shefford, sharply, and he strode right up to Joe.
“See here, Shefford, we’ve been pards. You’re making it hard for me. Reckon you ain’t square.”
Shefford shot out a long arm and his hand clutched the Mormon’s burly shoulder.
“Why am I not square? What do you mean?”
Joe swallowed hard and gave himself a shake. Then he eyed his comrade steadily.
“I was afraid you’d kill him. I reckon I can’t blame you. I’ll help you get away. And I’m a Mormon! Do you take the hunch?... But don’t deny you killed him!”
“Killed whom?” gasped Shefford.
“Her husband!”
Shefford seemed stricken by a slow, paralyzing horror. The Mormon’s changing face grew huge and indistinct and awful in his sight. He was clutched and shaken in Joe’s rude hands, yet scarcely felt them. Joe seemed to be bellowing at him, but the voice was far off. Then Shefford began to see, to hear through some cold and terrible deadness that had come between him and everything.
“Say YOU killed him!” hoarsely supplicated the Mormon.
Shefford had not yet control of speech. Something in his gaze appeared to drive Joe frantic.
“Damn you! Tell me quick. Say YOU killed him!... If you want to know my stand, why, I’m glad!... Shefford, don’t look so stony! ... For HER sake, say you killed him!”
Shefford stood with a face as gray and still as stone. With a groan the Mormon drew away from him and sank upon a log. He bowed his head; his broad shoulders heaved; husky sounds came from him. Then with a violent wrench he plunged to his feet and shook himself like a huge, savage dog.
“Reckon it’s no time to weaken,” he said, huskily, and with the words a dark, hard, somber bitterness came to his face.
“Where — is — she?” whispered Shefford.
“Shut up in the school-house,” he replied.
“Did she — did she—”
“She neither denied nor confessed.”
“Have you — seen her?”
“Yes.”
“How did — she look?”
“Cool and quiet as the Indian there.... Game as hell! She always had stuff in her.”
“Oh, Joe!... It’s unbelievable!” cried Shefford. “That lovely, innocent girl! She couldn’t — she couldn’t.”
“She’s fixed him. Don’t think of that. It’s too late. We ought to have saved her.”
>
“God!... She begged me to hurry — to take her away.”
“Think what we can do NOW to save her,” cut in the Mormon.
Shefford sustained a vivifying shock. “To save her?” he echoed.
“Think, man!”
“Joe, I can hit the trail and let you tell them I killed him,” burst out Shefford in panting excitement.
“Reckon I can.”
“So help me God I’ll do it!”
The Mormon turned a dark and austere glance upon Shefford.
“You mustn’t leave her. She killed him for your sake.... You must fight for her now — save her — take her away.”
“But the law!”
“Law!” scoffed Joe. “In these wilds men get killed and there’s no law. But if she’s taken back to Stonebridge those iron-jawed old Mormons will make law enough to — to... Shefford, the thing is — get her away. Once out of the country, she’s safe. Mormons keep their secrets.”
“I’ll take her. Joe, will you help me?”
Shefford, even in his agitation, felt the Mormon’s silence to be a consent that need not have been asked. And Shefford had a passionate gratefulness toward his comrade. That stultifying and blinding prejudice which had always seemed to remove a Mormon outside the pale of certain virtue suffered final eclipse; and Joe Lake stood out a man, strange and crude, but with a heart and a soul.
“Joe, tell me what to do,” said Shefford, with a simplicity that meant he needed only to be directed.
“Pull yourself together. Get your nerve back,” replied Joe. “Reckon you’d better show yourself over there. No one saw you come in this morning — your absence from camp isn’t known. It’s better you seem curious and shocked like the rest of us. Come on. We’ll go over. And afterward we’ll get the Indian, and plan.”
They left camp and, crossing the brook, took the shaded path toward the village. Hope of saving Fay, the need of all his strength and nerve and cunning to effect that end, gave Shefford the supreme courage to overcome his horror and fear. On that short walk under the pinyons to Fay’s cabin he had suffered many changes of emotion, but never anything like this change which made him fierce and strong to fight, deep and crafty to plan, hard as iron to endure.
The village appeared very quiet, though groups of women stood at the doors of cabins. If they talked, it was very low. Henninger and Smith, two of the three Mormon men living in the village, were standing before the closed door of the school-house. A tigerish feeling thrilled Shefford when he saw them on guard there. Shefford purposely avoided looking at Fay’s cabin as long as he could keep from it. When he had to look he saw several hooded, whispering women in the yard, and Beal, the other Mormon man, standing in the cabin door. Upon the porch lay the long shape of a man, covered with blankets.
Shefford experienced a horrible curiosity.
“Say, Beal, I’ve fetched Shefford over,” said Lake. “He’s pretty much cut up.”
Beal wagged a solemn head, but said nothing. His mind seemed absent or steeped in gloom, and he looked up as one silently praying.
Joe Lake strode upon the little porch and, reaching down, he stripped the blanket from the shrouded form.
Shefford saw a sharp, cold, ghastly face. “WAGGONER!” he whispered.
“Yes,” replied Lake.
Waggoner! Shefford remembered the strange power in his face, and, now that life had gone, that power was stripped of all disguise. Death, in Shefford’s years of ministry, had lain under his gaze many times and in a multiplicity of aspects, but never before had he seen it stamped so strangely. Shefford did not need to be told that here was a man who believed he had conversed with God on earth, who believed he had a divine right to rule women, who had a will that would not yield itself to death utterly. Waggoner, then, was the devil who had come masked to Surprise Valley, had forced a martyrdom upon Fay Larkin. And this was the Mormon who had made Fay Larkin a murderess. Shefford had hated him living, and now he hated him dead. Death here was robbed of all nobility, of pathos, of majesty. It was only retribution. Wild justice! But alas! that it had to be meted out by a white-soled girl whose innocence was as great as the unconscious savagery which she had assimilated from her lonely and wild environment. Shefford laid a despairing curse upon his own head, and a terrible remorse knocked at his heart. He had left her alone, this girl in whom love had made the great change — like a coward he had left her alone. That curse he visited upon himself because he had been the spirit and the motive of this wild justice, and his should have been the deed.
Joe Lake touched Shefford’s arm and pointed at the haft of a knife protruding from Waggoner’s breast. It was a wooden haft. Shefford had seen it before somewhere.
Then he was struck with what perhaps Joe meant him to see — the singular impression the haft gave of one sweeping, accurate, powerful stroke. A strong arm had driven that blade home. The haft was sunk deep; there was a little depression in the cloth; no blood showed; and the weapon looked as if it could not be pulled out. Shefford’s thought went fatally and irresistibly to Fay Larkin’s strong arm. He saw her flash that white arm and lift the heavy bucket from the spring with an ease he wondered at. He felt the strong clasp of her hand as she had given it to him in a flying leap across a crevice upon the walls. Yes, her fine hand and the round, strong arm possessed the strength to have given that blade its singular directness and force. The marvel was not in the physical action. It hid inscrutably in the mystery of deadly passion rising out of a gentle and sad heart.
Joe Lake drew up the blanket and shut from Shefford’s fascinated gaze that spare form, that accusing knife, that face of strange, cruel power.
“Anybody been sent for?” asked Lake of Beal.
“Yes. An Indian boy went for the Piute. We’ll send him to Stonebridge,” replied the Mormon.
“How soon do you expect any one here from Stonebridge?”
“To-morrow, mebbe by noon.”
“Meantime what’s to be done with — this?”
“Elder Smith thinks the body should stay right here where it fell till they come from Stonebridge.”
“Waggoner was found here, then?”
“Right here.”
“Who found him?”
“Mother Smith. She came over early. An’ the sight made her scream. The women all came runnin’. Mother Smith had to be put to bed.”
“Who found — Mary?”
“See here, Joe, I told you all I knowed once before,” replied the Mormon, testily.
“I’ve forgotten. Was sort of bewildered. Tell me again.... Who found — her?”
“The women folks. She laid right inside the door, in a dead faint. She hadn’t undressed. There was blood on her hands an’ a cut or scratch. The women fetched her to. But she wouldn’t talk. Then Elder Smith come an’ took her. They’ve got her locked up.”
Then Joe led Shefford away from the cabin farther on into the village. When they were halted by the somber, grieving women it was Joe who did the talking. They passed the school-house, and here Shefford quickened his step. He could scarcely bear the feeling that rushed over him. And the Mormon gripped his arm as if he understood.
“Shefford, which one of these younger women do you reckon your best friend? Ruth?” asked Lake, earnestly.
“Ruth, by all means. Just lately I haven’t seen her often. But we’ve been close friends. I think she’d do much for me.”
“Maybe there’ll be a chance to find out. Maybe we’ll need Ruth. Let’s have a word with her. I haven’t seen her out among the women.”
They stopped at the door of Ruth’s cabin. It was closed. When Joe knocked there came a sound of footsteps inside, a hand drew aside the window-blind, and presently the door opened. Ruth stood there, dressed in somber hue. She was a pretty, slender, blue-eyed, brown-haired young woman.
Shefford imagined from her pallor and the set look of shock upon her face, that the tragedy had affected her more powerfully than it had the other women. When he remembered that she had bee
n more friendly with Fay Larkin than any other neighbor, he made sure he was right in his conjecture.
“Come in,” was Ruth’s greeting.
“No. We just wanted to say a word. I noticed you’ve not been out. Do you know — all about it?”
She gave them a strange glance.
“Any of the women folks been in?” added Joe.
“Hester ran over. She told me through the window. Then I barred my door to keep the other women out.”
“What for?” asked Joe, curiously.
“Please come in,” she said, in reply.
They entered, and she closed the door after them. The change that came over her then was the loosing of restraint.
“Joe — what will they do with Mary?” she queried, tensely.
The Mormon studied her with dark, speculative eyes. “Hang her!” he rejoined in brutal harshness.
“O Mother of Saints!” she cried, and her hands went up.
“You’re sorry for Mary, then?” asked Joe, bluntly.
“My heart is breaking for her.”
“Well, so’s Shefford’s,” said the Mormon, huskily. “And mine’s kind of damn shaky.”
Ruth glided to Shefford with a woman’s swift softness.
“You’ve been my good — my best friend. You were hers, too. Oh, I know! ... Can’t you do something for her?”
“I hope to God I can,” replied Shefford.
Then the three stood looking from one to the other, in a strong and subtly realizing moment drawn together.
“Ruth,” whispered Joe, hoarsely, and then he glanced fearfully around, at the window and door, as if listeners were there. It was certain that his dark face had paled. He tried to whisper more, only to fail. Shefford divined the weight of Mormonism that burdened Joe Lake then. Joe was faithful to a love for Fay Larkin, noble in friendship to Shefford, desperate in a bitter strait with his own manliness, but the power of that creed by which he had been raised struck his lips mute. For to speak on meant to be false to that creed. Already in his heart he had decided, yet he could not voice the thing.