by Zane Grey
He went into the village and made himself useful and agreeable. He made friends with the children and he talked to the women until he was hoarse. Their ignorance of the world was a spur to him, and never in his life had he had such an attentive audience. And as he showed no curiosity, asked no difficult questions, gradually what reserve he had noted wore away, and the end of the day saw him on a footing with them that Withers had predicted.
By the time several like days had passed it seemed from the interest and friendliness of these women that he might have lived long among them. He was possessed of wit and eloquence and information, which he freely gave, and not with selfish motive. He liked these women; he liked to see the somber shade pass from their faces, to see them brighten. He had met the girl Mary at the spring and along the path, but he had not yet seen her face. He was always looking for her, hoping to meet her, and confessed to himself that the best of the day for him were the morning and evening visits she made to the spring. Nevertheless, for some reason hard to divine, he was reluctant to seek her deliberately.
Always while he had listened to her neighbors’ talk, he had hoped they might let fall something about her. But they did not. He received an impression that she was not so intimate with the others as he had supposed. They all made one big family. Still, she seemed a little outside. He could bring no proofs to strengthen this idea. He merely felt it, and many of his feelings were independent of intelligent reason. Something had been added to curiosity, that was sure.
It was his habit to call upon Mother Smith in the afternoons. From the first her talk to him hinted of a leaning toward thought of making him a Mormon. Her husband and the other men took up her cue and spoke of their religion, casually at first, but gradually opening their minds to free and simple discussion of their faith. Shefford lent respectful attention. He would rather have been a Mormon than an atheist, and apparently they considered him the latter, and were earnest to save his soul. Shefford knew that he could never be one any more than the other. He was just at sea. But he listened, and he found them simple in faith, blind, perhaps, but loyal and good. It was noteworthy that Mother Smith happened to be the only woman in the village who had ever mentioned religion to him. She was old, of a past generation; the young women belonged to the present. Shefford pondered the significant difference.
Every day made more steadfast his impression of the great mystery that was like a twining shadow round these women, yet in the same time many little ideas shifted and many new characteristics became manifest. This last was of course the result of acquaintance; he was learning more about the villagers. He gathered from keen interpretation of subtle words and looks that here in this lonely village, the same as in all the rest of the world where women were together, there were cliques, quarrels, dislikes, loves, and jealousies. The truth, once known to him, made him feel natural and fortified his confidence to meet the demands of an increasingly interesting position. He discovered, with a somewhat grim amusement, that a clergyman’s experience in a church full of women had not been entirely useless.
One afternoon he let fall a careless remark that was a subtle question in regard to the girl Mary, whom Withers called the Sago Lily. In response he received an answer couched in the sweet poisoned honey of woman’s jealousy. He said no more. Certain ideas of his were strengthened, and straightway he became thoughtful.
That afternoon late, as he did his camp chores, he watched for her. But she did not come. Then he decided to go to see her. But even the decision and the strange thrill it imparted did not change his reluctance.
Twilight was darkening the valley when he reached her house, and the shadows were thick under the pinyons. There was no light in the door or window. He saw a white shape on the porch, and as he came down the path it rose. It was the girl Mary, and she appeared startled.
“Good evening,” he said. “It’s Shefford. May I stay and talk a little while?”
She was silent for so long that he began to feel awkward.
“I’d be glad to have you,” she replied, finally.
There was a bench on the porch, but he preferred to sit upon a blanket on the step.
“I’ve been getting acquainted with everybody—except you,” he went on.
“I have been here,” she replied.
That might have been a woman’s speech, but it certainly had been made in a girl’s voice. She was neither shy nor embarrassed nor self-conscious. As she stood back from him he could not see her face in the dense twilight.
“I’ve been wanting to call on you.”
She made some slight movement. Shefford felt a strange calm, yet he knew the moment was big and potent.
“Won’t you sit here?” he asked.
She complied with his wish, and then he saw her face, though dimly, in the twilight. And it struck him mute. But he had no glimpse such as had flashed upon him from under her hood that other night. He thought of a white flower in shadow, and received his first impression of the rare and perfect lily Withers had said graced the wild canyon. She was only a girl. She sat very still, looking straight before her, and seemed to be waiting, listening. Shefford saw the quick rise and fall of her bosom.
“I want to talk,” he began, swiftly, hoping to put her at her ease. “Every one here has been good to me and I’ve talked—oh, for hours and hours. But the thing in my mind I haven’t spoken of. I’ve never asked any questions. That makes my part so strange. I want to tell why I came out here. I need someone who will keep my secret, and perhaps help me.… Would you?”
“Yes, if I could,” she replied.
“You see I’ve got to trust you, or one of these other women. You’re all Mormons. I don’t mean that’s anything against you. I believe you’re all good and noble. But the fact makes—well, makes a liberty of speech impossible. What can I do?”
Her silence probably meant that she did not know. Shefford sensed less strain in her and more excitement. He believed he was on the right track and did not regret his impulse. Even had he regretted it he would have gone on, for opposed to caution and intelligence was his driving mystic force.
Then he told her the truth about his boyhood, his ambition to be an artist, his renunciation to his father’s hope, his career as a clergyman, his failure in religion, and the disgrace that had made him a wanderer.
“Oh—I’m sorry!” she said. The faint starlight shone on her face, in her eyes, and if he ever saw beauty and soul he saw them then. She seemed deeply moved. She had forgotten herself. She betrayed girlhood then—all the quick sympathy, the wonder, the sweetness of a heart innocent and untutored. She looked at him with great, starry, questioning eyes, as if they had just become aware of his presence, as if a man had been strange to her.
“Thank you. It’s good of you to be sorry,” he said. “My instinct guided me right. Perhaps you’ll be my friend.”
“I will be—if I can,” she said.
“But can you be?”
“I don’t know. I never had a friend. I… But, sir, I mustn’t talk of myself.… Oh, I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
How strange the pathos of her voice! Almost he believed she was in need of help or sympathy or love. But he could not wholly trust a judgment formed from observation of a class different from hers.
“Maybe you can help me. Let’s see,” he said. “I don’t seek to make you talk of yourself. But—you’re a human being—a girl—almost a woman. You’re not dumb. But even a nun can talk.”
“A nun? What is that?”
“Well—a nun is a sister of mercy—a woman consecrated to God—who has renounced the world. In some ways you Mormon women here resemble nuns. It is sacrifice that nails you in this lonely valley.… You see—how I talk! One word, one thought brings another, and I speak what perhaps should be unsaid. And it’s hard, because I feel I could unburden myself to you.”
“Tell me what you want,” she said.
Shefford hesitated, and became aware of the rapid pound of his heart. More than anything he wanted
to be fair to this girl. He saw that she was warming to his influence. Her shadowy eyes were fixed upon him. The starlight, growing brighter, shone on her golden hair and white face.
“I’ll tell you presently,” he said. “I’ve trusted you. I’ll trust you with all.… But let me have my own time. This is so strange a thing, my wanting to confide in you. It’s selfish, perhaps. I have my own ax to grind. I hope I won’t wrong you. That’s why I’m going to be perfectly frank. I might wait for days to get better acquainted. But the impulse is on me. I’ve been so interested in all you Mormon women. The fact—the meaning of this hidden village is so—so terrible to me. But that’s none of my business. I have spent my afternoons and evenings with these women at the different cottages. You do not mingle with them. They are lonely, but have not such loneliness as yours. I have passed here every night. No light—no sound. I can’t help thinking. Don’t censure me or be afraid or draw within yourself just because I must think. I may be all wrong. But I’m curious. I wonder about you. Who are you? Mary—Mary what? Maybe I really don’t want to know. I came with selfish motive and now I’d like to—to—what shall I say? Make your life a little less lonely for the while I’m here. That’s all. It needn’t offend. And if you accept it, how much easier I can tell you my secret. You are a Mormon and I—well, I am only a wanderer in these wilds. But—we might help each other.… Have I made a mistake?”
“No—no,” she cried, almost wildly.
“We can be friends then. You will trust me, help me?”
“Yes, if I dare.”
“Surely you may dare what the other women would?”
She was silent.
And the wistfulness of her silence touched him. He felt contrition. He did not stop to analyze his own emotions, but he had an inkling that once this strange situation was ended he would have food for reflection. What struck him most now was the girl’s blanched face, the strong, nervous clasp of her hands, the visible tumult of her bosom. Excitement alone could not be accountable for this. He had not divined the cause for such agitation. He was puzzled, troubled, and drawn irresistibly. He had not said what he had planned to say. The moment had given birth to his speech, and it had flowed. What was guiding him?
“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 anyone, 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.
CHAPTER 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 awh
ile. 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 today. 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 their first wives, and then have hidden them here in this lonely hole.… Did you ever imagine so terrible a thing?”