Collected Works of Zane Grey

by Zane Grey

  Fay Larkin was held close to the side of a magnificent woman, barbarously clad in garments made of skins and pieces of blanket. Her face worked in noble emotion. Shefford seemed to see the ghost of that fair beauty Venters had said was Jane Withersteen’s. Her hair was gray. Near her stood a lean, stoop-shouldered man whose long hair was perfectly white. His gaunt face was bare of beard. It had strange, sloping, sad lines. And he was staring with mild, surprised eyes.

  The moment held Shefford mute till sight of Fay Larkin’s tear-wet face broke the spell. He leaped forward and his strong hands reached for the woman and the man.

  “Jane Withersteen!... Lassiter! I have found you!”

  “Oh, sir, who are you?” she cried, with rich and deep and quivering voice. “This child came running — screaming. She could not speak. We thought she had gone mad — and escaped to come back to us.”

  “I am John Shefford,” he replied, swiftly. “I am a friend of Bern Venters — of his wife Bess. I learned your story. I came west. I’ve searched a year. I found Fay. And we’ve come to take you away.”

  “You found Fay? But that masked Mormon who forced her to sacrifice herself to save us!... What of him? It’s not been so many long years — I remember what my father was — and Dyer and Tull — all those cruel churchmen.”

  “Waggoner is dead,” replied Shefford.

  “Dead? She is free! Oh, what — how did he die?”

  “He was killed.”

  “Who did it?”

  “That’s no matter,” replied Shefford, stonily, and he met her gaze with steady eyes. “He’s out of the way. Fay was never his wife. Fay’s free. We’ve come to take you out of the country. We must hurry. We’ll be tracked — pursued. But we’ve horses and an Indian guide. We’ll get away.... I think it better to leave here at once. There’s no telling how soon we’ll be hunted. Get what things you want to take with you.”

  “Oh — yes — Mother Jane, let us hurry!” cried Fay. “I’m so full — I can’t talk — my heart hurts so!”

  Jane Withersteen’s face shone with an exceedingly radiant light, and a glory blended with a terrible fear in her eyes.

  “Fay! my little Fay!”

  Lassiter had stood there with his mild, clear blue eyes upon Shefford.

  “I shore am glad to see you — all,” he drawled, and extended his hand as if the meeting were casual. “What’d you say your name was?”

  Shefford repeated it as he met the proffered hand.

  “How’s Bern an’ Bess?” Lassiter inquired.

  “They were well, prosperous, happy when last I saw them.... They had a baby.”

  “Now ain’t thet fine?... Jane, did you hear? Bess has a baby. An’, Jane, didn’t I always say Bern would come back to get us out? Shore it’s just the same.”

  How cool, easy, slow, and mild this Lassiter seemed! Had the man grown old, Shefford wondered? The past to him manifestly was only yesterday, and the danger of the present was as nothing. Looking in Lassiter’s face, Shefford was baffled. If he had not remembered the greatness of this old gun-man he might have believed that the lonely years in the valley had unbalanced his mind. In an hour like this coolness seemed inexplicable — assuredly would have been impossible in an ordinary man. Yet what hid behind that drawling coolness? What was the meaning of those long, sloping, shadowy lines of the face? What spirit lay in the deep, mild, clear eyes? Shefford experienced a sudden check to what had been his first growing impression of a drifting, broken old man.

  “Lassiter, pack what little you can carry — mustn’t be much — and we’ll get out of here,” said Shefford.

  “I shore will. Reckon I ain’t a-goin’ to need a pack-train. We saved the clothes we wore in here. Jane never thought it no use. But I figgered we might need them some day. They won’t be stylish, but I reckon they’ll do better ‘n these skins. An’ there’s an old coat thet was Venters’s.”

  The mild, dreamy look became intensified in Lassiter’s eyes.

  “Did Venters have any hosses when you knowed him?” he asked.

  “He had a farm full of horses,” replied Shefford, with a smile. “And there were two blacks — the grandest horses I ever saw. Black Star and Night! You remember, Lassiter?”

  “Shore. I was wonderin’ if he got the blacks out. They must be growin’ old by now.... Grand hosses, they was. But Jane had another hoss, a big devil of a sorrel. His name was Wrangle. Did Venters ever tell you about him — an’ thet race with Jerry Card?”

  “A hundred times!” replied Shefford.

  “Wrangle run the blacks off their legs. But Jane never would believe thet. An’ I couldn’t change her all these years.... Reckon mebbe we’ll get to see them blacks?”

  “Indeed, I hope — I believe you will,” replied Shefford, feelingly.

  “Shore won’t thet be fine. Jane, did you hear? Black Star an’ Night are livin’ an’ we’ll get to see them.”

  But Jane Withersteen only clasped Fay in her arms, and looked at Lassiter with wet and glistening eyes.

  Shefford told them to hurry and come to the cliff where the ascent from the valley was to be made. He thought best to leave them alone to make their preparations and bid farewell to the cavern home they had known for so long.

  Then he strolled back along the wall, loitering here to gaze into a cave, and there to study crude red paintings in the nooks. And sometimes he halted thoughtfully and did not see anything. At length he rounded a corner of cliff to espy Nas Ta Bega sitting upon the ledge, reposeful and watchful as usual. Shefford told the Indian they would be climbing out soon, and then he sat down to wait and let his gaze rove over the valley.

  He might have sat there a long while, so sad and reflective and wondering was his thought, but it seemed a very short time till Fay came in sight with her free, swift grace, and Lassiter and Jane some distance behind. Jane carried a small bundle and Lassiter had a sack over his shoulder that appeared no inconsiderable burden.

  “Them beans shore is heavy,” he drawled, as he deposited the sack upon the ground.

  Shefford curiously took hold of the sack and was amazed to find that a second and hard muscular effort was required to lift it.

  “Beans?” he queried.

  “Shore,” replied Lassiter.

  “That’s the heaviest sack of beans I ever saw. Why — it’s not possible it can be.... Lassiter, we’ve a long, rough trail. We’ve got to pack light—”

  “Wal, I ain’t a-goin’ to leave this here sack behind. Reckon I’ve been all of twelve years in fillin’ it,” he declared, mildly.

  Shefford could only stare at him.

  “Fay may need them beans,” went on Lassiter.

  “Why?”

  “Because they’re gold.”

  “Gold!” ejaculated Shefford.

  “Shore. An’ they represent some work. Twelve years of diggin’ an’ washin’!”

  Shefford laughed constrainedly. “Well, Lassiter, that alters the case considerably. A sack of gold nuggets or grains, or beans, as you call them, certainly must not be left behind.... Come, now, we’ll tackle this climbing job.”

  He called up to the Indian and, grasping the rope, began to walk up the first slant, and then by dint of hand-over-hand effort and climbing with knees and feet he succeeded, with Nas Ta Bega’s help, in making the ledge. Then he let down the rope to haul up the sack and bundle. That done, he directed Fay to fasten the noose round her as he had fixed it before. When she had complied he called to her to hold herself out from the wall while he and Nas Ta Bega hauled her up.

  “Hold the rope tight,” replied Fay, “I’ll walk up.”

  And to Shefford’s amaze and admiration, she virtually walked up that almost perpendicular wall by slipping her hands along the rope and stepping as she pulled herself up. There, if never before, he saw the fruit of her years of experience on steep slopes. Only such experience could have made the feat possible.

  Jane had to be hauled up, and the task was a painful one for her. Lassiter�
��s turn came then, and he showed more strength and agility than Shefford had supposed him capable of. From the ledge they turned their attention to the narrow crack with its ladder of sticks. Fay had already ascended and now hung over the rim, her white face and golden hair framed vividly in the narrow stream of blue sky above.

  “Mother Jane! Uncle Jim! You are so slow,” she called.

  “Wal, Fay, we haven’t been second cousins to a canyon squirrel all these years,” replied Lassiter.

  This upper half of the climb bid fair to be as difficult for Jane, if not so painful, as the lower. It was necessary for the Indian to go up and drop the rope, which was looped around her, and then, with him pulling from above and Shefford assisting Jane as she climbed, she was finally gotten up without mishap. When Lassiter reached the level they rested a little while and then faced the great slide of jumbled rocks. Fay led the way, light, supple, tireless, and Shefford never ceased looking at her. At last they surmounted the long slope and, winding along the rim, reached the point where Fay had led out of the cedars.

  Nas Ta Bega, then, was the one to whom Shefford looked for every decision or action of the immediate future. The Indian said he had seen a pool of water in a rocky hole, that the day was spent, that here was a little grass for the mustangs, and it would be well to camp right there. So while Nas Ta Bega attended to the mustangs Shefford set about such preparations for camp and supper as their light pack afforded. The question of beds was easily answered, for the mats of soft needles under pinon and cedar would be comfortable places to sleep.

  When Shefford felt free again the sun was setting. Lassiter and Jane were walking under the trees. The Indian had returned to camp. But Fay was missing. Shefford imagined he knew where to find her, and upon going to the edge of the forest he saw her sitting on the promontory. He approached her, drawn in spite of a feeling that perhaps he ought to stay away.

  “Fay, would you rather be alone?” he asked.

  His voice startled her.

  “I want you,” she replied, and held out her hand.

  Taking it in his own, he sat beside her.

  The red sun was at their backs. Surprise Valley lay hazy, dusky, shadowy beneath them. The opposite wall seemed fired by crimson flame, save far down at its base, which the sun no longer touched. And the dark line of red slowly rose, encroaching upon the bright crimson. Changing, transparent, yet dusky veils seemed to float between the walls; long, red rays, where the sun shone through notch or crack in the rim, split the darker spaces; deep down at the floor the forest darkened, the strip of aspen paled, the meadow turned gray; and all under the shelves and in the great caverns a purple gloom deepened. Then the sun set. And swiftly twilight was there below while day lingered above. On the opposite wall the fire died and the stone grew cold.

  A canyon night-hawk voiced his lonely, weird, and melancholy cry, and it seemed to pierce and mark the silence.

  A pale star, peering out of a sky that had begun to turn blue, marked the end of twilight. And all the purple shadows moved and hovered and changed till, softly and mysteriously, they embraced black night.

  Beautiful, wild, strange, silent Surprise Valley! Shefford saw it before and beneath him, a dark abyss now, the abode of loneliness. He imagined faintly what was in Fay Larkin’s heart. For the last time she had seen the sun set there and night come with its dead silence and sweet mystery and phantom shadows, its velvet blue sky and white trains of stars.

  He, who had dreamed and longed and searched, found that the hour had been incalculable for him in its import.

  XVII. THE TRAIL TO NONNEZOSHE

  WHEN SHEFFORD AWOKE next morning and sat up on his bed of pinon boughs the dawn had broken cold with a ruddy gold brightness under the trees. Nas Ta Bega and Lassiter were busy around a camp-fire; the mustangs were haltered near by; Jane Withersteen combed out her long, tangled tresses with a crude wooden comb; and Fay Larkin was not in sight. As she had been missing from the group at sunset, so she was now at sunrise. Shefford went out to take his last look at Surprise Valley.

  On the evening before the valley had been a place of dusky red veils and purple shadows, and now it was pink-walled, clear and rosy and green and white, with wonderful shafts of gold slanting down from the notched eastern rim. Fay stood on the promontory, and Shefford did not break the spell of her silent farewell to her wild home. A strange emotion abided with him and he knew he would always, all his life, regret leaving Surprise Valley.

  Then the Indian called.

  “Come, Fay,” said Shefford, gently.

  And she turned away with dark, haunted eyes and a white, still face.

  The somber Indian gave a silent gesture for Shefford to make haste. While they had breakfast the mustangs were saddled and packed. And soon all was in readiness for the flight. Fay was given Nack-yal, Jane the saddled horse Shefford had ridden, and Lassiter the Indian’s roan. Shefford and Nas Ta Bega were to ride the blanketed mustangs, and the sixth and last one bore the pack. Nas Ta Bega set off, leading this horse; the others of the party lined in behind, with Shefford at the rear.

  Nas Ta Bega led at a brisk trot, and sometimes, on level stretches of ground, at an easy canter; and Shefford had a grim realization of what this flight was going to be for these three fugitives, now so unaccustomed to riding. Jane and Lassiter, however, needed no watching, and showed they had never forgotten how to manage a horse. The Indian back-trailed yesterday’s path for an hour, then headed west to the left, and entered a low pass. All parts of this plateau country looked alike, and Shefford was at some pains to tell the difference of this strange ground from that which he had been over. In another hour they got out of the rugged, broken rock to the wind-worn and smooth, shallow canyon. Shefford calculated that they were coming to the end of the plateau. The low walls slanted lower; the canyon made a turn; Nas Ta Bega disappeared; and then the others of the party. When Shefford turned the corner of wall he saw a short strip of bare, rocky ground with only sky beyond. The Indian and his followers had halted in a group. Shefford rode to them, halted himself, and in one sweeping glance realized the meaning of their silent gaze. But immediately Nas Ta Bega started down; and the mustangs, without word or touch, followed him. Shefford, however, lingered on the promontory.

  His gaze seemed impelled and held by things afar — the great yellow-and-purple corrugated world of distance, now on a level with his eyes. He was drawn by the beauty and the grandeur of that scene and transfixed by the realization that he had dared to venture to find a way through this vast, wild, and upflung fastness. He kept looking afar, sweeping the three-quartered circle of horizon till his judgment of distance was confounded and his sense of proportion dwarfed one moment and magnified the next. Then he withdrew his fascinated gaze to adopt the Indian’s method of studying unlimited spaces in the desert — to look with slow, contracted eyes from near to far.

  His companions had begun to zigzag down a long slope, bare of rock, with yellow gravel patches showing between the scant strips of green, and here and there a scrub-cedar. Half a mile down, the slope merged into green level. But close, keen gaze made out this level to be a rolling plain, growing darker green, with blue lines of ravines, and thin, undefined spaces that might be mirage. Miles and miles it swept and relied and heaved to lose its waves in apparent darker level. A round, red rock stood isolated, marking the end of the barren plain, and farther on were other round rocks, all isolated, all of different shape. They resembled huge grazing cattle. But as Shefford gazed, and his sight gained strength from steadily holding it to separate features these rocks were strangely magnified. They grew and grew into mounds, castles, domes, crags — great, red, wind-carved buttes. One by one they drew his gaze to the wall of upflung rock. He seemed to see a thousand domes of a thousand shapes and colors, and among them a thousand blue clefts, each one a little mark in his sight, yet which he knew was a canyon. So far he gained some idea of what he saw. But beyond this wide area of curved lines rose another wall, dwarfing the lower, dark red,
horizon — long, magnificent in frowning boldness, and because of its limitless deceiving surfaces, breaks, and lines, incomprehensible to the sight of man. Away to the eastward began a winding, ragged, blue line, looping back upon itself, and then winding away again, growing wider and bluer. This line was the San Juan canyon. Where was Joe Lake at that moment? Had he embarked yet on the river — did that blue line, so faint, so deceiving, hold him and the boat? Almost it was impossible to believe. Shefford followed the blue line all its length, a hundred miles, he fancied, down toward the west where it joined a dark, purple, shadowy cleft. And this was the Grand canyon of the Colorado. Shefford’s eye swept along with that winding mark, farther and farther to the west, round to the left, until the cleft, growing larger and coming closer, losing its deception, was seen to be a wild and winding canyon. Still farther to the left, as he swung in fascinated gaze, it split the wonderful wall — a vast plateau now with great red peaks and yellow mesas. The canyon was full of purple smoke. It turned, it gaped, it lost itself and showed again in that chaos of a million cliffs. And then farther on it became again a cleft, a purple line, at last to fail entirely in deceiving distance.

  Shefford imagined there was no scene in all the world to equal that. The tranquillity of lesser spaces was not here manifest. Sound, movement, life, seemed to have no fitness here. Ruin was there and desolation and decay. The meaning of the ages was flung at him, and a man became nothing. When he had gazed at the San Juan canyon he had been appalled at the nature of Joe Lake’s Herculean task. He had lost hope, faith. The thing was not possible. But when Shefford gazed at that sublime and majestic wilderness, in which the Grand canyon was only a dim line, he strangely lost his terror and something else came to him from across the shining spaces. If Nas Ta Bega led them safely down to the river, if Joe Lake met them at the mouth of Nonnezoshe Boco, if they survived the rapids of that terrible gorge, then Shefford would have to face his soul and the meaning of this spirit that breathed on the wind.